I Companion
by Kerobani
Summary: A Cyrodiil native who grew up in the aftermath of the Great War runs for his life toward Skyrim. But is he running from failure or running toward something greater? Companions quest line, starts Main quest line. Rated M to be safe, mostly for violence and language.
1. Prologue

**Thank you for taking the time to read the opening of what I hope to be a long series of stories focusing on my Dragonborn's adventures. The genesis of this series is two of my biggest frustrations with what is otherwise my favorite game: The facts that in Skyrim, your character cannot speak; and that the world seems to revolve exclusively around your character instead of your character being a part of the world.**

**As you read keep in mind that I look on what we players see of Skyrim in-game to be merely a model for a _much_ larger and more populous world. Let's be realistic: the UESPwiki claims that Skyrim takes up a large portion of a continent the size of Africa. There is no way you are going to be able to jog across it in less than a week.**

**One last thing before I close: Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks, though I hope they will indulge me in my use of their world to tell my own story.**

* * *

The tall doors before us shuddered from a blasting spell outside. Splinters and dust fell from the battered oak. My breath was a loud rasp filling the narrow world inside of my helmet. Our shields were close enough to touch tip to tip: an array of red diamonds on white presented to the eager attackers. Behind me a mercenary rested his shield on my back. Panic took me for a moment, a fear that the man was trying to push me out of the line. I leaned back hard on reflex, almost breaking the line. I looked left and right to Aerc and Jesten, my friends from childhood, now my Knight-Brothers for reassurance. I found none. My two most stalwart friends looked vacantly ahead, lost in their own thoughts and fears. Even the sky was closing down upon me, trapping me beneath thickening clouds glowing red and purple in the setting sun.

Behind we warriors were families and individuals, all criminals in the eyes of the Thalmor. They were heretics, Talos worshipers the Empire was coerced into hunting. They had sought out the Ninth Path and rested at Battlehorn Castle, the last way station before Hammerfell and safety.

The shattering of the door brought me back to the present. Standing alone before his Knight-Brothers our Grand Master, a towering Orc in the blessed armor of Pelinal Whitestrake stood fearlessly. In that moment, I worshiped him.

"Do not wait for the onset!" he called to us one last time, "However many have come to slay us, you will win through or win glory! Remember your oath! Keep the faithful safe!"

With a terrific crash the doors evaporated. Shields went up and faces went down, cowering from the violent spray of oaken splinters and iron studs. At last I beheld my enemy, their armor reflecting silver and gold in the sunset. They were legionnaires with Thalmor to goad them in their brassy armor and black robes. Our archers loosed a single volley. The leading soldiers fell in a ragged line. And then the Grand Master was upon them. It was like looking upon a god of war in his wrath. Sword and shield were both terrifying weapons in his grasp. Fans of blood and pieces of armor flew high while he roared. None withstood him.

For brief heartbeats he fought alone as we gazed in awe. With a shout we recovered and followed his example, fear forgotten as the battle-fury overcame us.

I hurled myself at my first target, a Nord a head taller than I in a Legionnaire's armor. His shield was decorated with Cheydinhall's vines. My slight frame bounced off his more than six feet of towering muscle. I set myself again and stabbed, the tip of my blade snaking its way into his throat. The Nord fell with a gurgle, the first civil blood I had ever drawn. May my father forgive me: he had retired as a tribune of the same legion.

The rest of the battle is lost to me. There are six more I can be sure of, including two of those apostate Justicars who stain my Empire. But that was not enough to save the people I was supposed to be protecting. In my first field battle as a Knight of the Nine, I failed my mission and ran away.

For her own reasons Kynerath was compassionate to me as I scrambled my way north toward the ruin of Lipsand Tarn. The steady autumn rain hid me from sight and drowned out the noise of my passage north. Ragged and tired, I slept in the reminants of my armor at the foot of the evlen ruin.

The next morning dawned cold in Colovia. I recalled my circumstances and fell into quaking sobs that might have gone on for hours. I had no food and little of value other than my sword. My armor was decorated with the badge of an enemy of the Thalmor. Returning to my home in Kavatch would make me a threat to my friends and family and I would be hunted everywhere in Cyrodiil. Shedding my armor, I kept my sword and resolved to continue northward. I would head to Skyrim. As the Thalmor had stepped up enforcement of their White-Gold Concordant blasphemy, we heard rumors that their presence was not so heavy in Skyrim and many still worshiped Talos as they pleased.

My flight to Bruma was dangerous and the visit into the town even more so. Thalmor teemed in the streets, usng the city as a net to catch fugitives fleeing their wrath. Using an old Mythic Dawn passage known to my order, I was able to enter unchallenged. Once within the walls I traded the last of my wealth and sword for the supplies I would need for the next stage of my trek. I had opted to use a hidden pass that our founder, the Champion of Cyrodill, had explored years ago.

A few days later, the hidden Akaviri fort near Pale Pass was behind me and I was struggling to find the road through the southern mountains of Skyrim. The Jerrals seemed to trap the snow and wind and cold. For an instant the wind and blowing snow abated. I became aware that I was not alone. I heard a shout, a clash of weapons in the trees, and footsteps running up to me. Hot pain seared through my head and I knew no more.


	2. Run you idiot!

**Thank you for your continued interest. Once again, Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

I awoke with a throbbing head in the back of a cart. I shared my ride with a nervous thief and a pair of well dressed Nords. One was wearing expensive looking clothing and was tightly gagged. The other was younger and wearing a light suit of chain mail, a bodyguard for the wealthier man. From the horse thief's babbling I learned how bad our situation was. Thankfully as we entered the gates of Helgen the younger Nord, who I later learned was called Ralof, cut him off and told him to behave like a man. Ralof kept up his narrative as we wound our way through the town and came to a halt at the foot of Helgen's tower. He pointed out the Thalmor agents and the Imperial Legion's General Tullius. The hatred in his voice equaled the despondency in my own heart at the sight of the Thalmor.

Ours was the last of three wagons of prisoners to come to a halt. The others had already disembarked. I noticed that all the other prisoners wore a uniform like Ralof's and that some were wounded. As we hopped out of our wagon, I came to realize that the thief and I were victims of circumstance: the Imperial Legion had ambushed this company of Nords. The desperate man and I had been in the wrong place at the worst time.

"Where are you from?" Ralof asked me.

"Kavatch. Why?" I replied.

"Because a man's last thoughts should be of home." He said.

The thief was not so stoic as Ralof or me, "No!" the man cried, "I'm not one of them! You have to believe me!" The idiot started running, "I've got to get away!"

The Centurion mustering us was livid, "Prisoner halt!" she bellowed in a voice to assemble a cohort. In the same breath, "Archers, drop that man!" I heard the snick-snick of two arrows flying, "Anyone else feel like running?" she growled. The thief hadn't made it ten paces.

"Prisoner, step forward," a legionnaire ordered me. He was a Nord and a fair specimen of his kind: a statue of huge corded muscles and chiseled features. He towered over my five feet, eight inches. He also looked confused, checking the roll of parchment he was holding and then looking quickly up at me. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Ieago of Kavatch," I replied, seeing no need to lie.

"Centurion, what should we do?" he called, "This one is not on the list."

She paused for just a second, "It doesn't matter!" she snapped, he goes to the block with the rest of them."

My heart sank at the verdict. Looking back to that afternoon it is clearer: the Justicars were looking directly at me.

"I'm sorry. I'll see that your remains are sent home," the soldier said.

Another guard pushed me toward the rest of the captives. I stood there and watched the military governor of Skyrim gloating over his nemesis.

"Ulfirc Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero," General Tullius' voice spat contempt. "But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Ulfirc's reply conveyed hatred even through his gag.

Tullius gave into his anger. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos! Now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!" There was a pregnant silence in the seconds afterward. Loyalist and rebel alike had been taken aback by the general's anger.

It was in that moment I heard a fateful cry. It is hard to describe as I come back to it. The cry was like a cross between a wolf's howl and the scraping of sheet metal.

"What was that?" the soldier who and been kind to me asked.

"It's nothing. Carry on." General Tullius commanded.

A priestess of Arkay stepped forward to give us our last rites. As usual, I felt uncomfortable in the presence of clergy. Even apart from the ban on Talos worship, I had never been comfortable with organized religion or even public worship. Now here was a woman calling on the eight divines to give me my last rites, spitting on my faith by her exclusion of Talos even as she commended my soul Aetherius.

I was not alone with my angst that day. "For the love of Talos! I haven't got all morning!" A rebel soldier next to me shouted, interrupting the priestess, "Shut up and let's get this over with." The priestess stepped back as the man strode up and knelt at the headsman's block. He was looking up at the executioner as his last seconds approached. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" The centurion toed his body off the block.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof lamented.

"The renegade from Cyrodiil next!" The centurion called.

We heard the strange call again. Closer this time, but still remote like an echo.

"There it is again. Did you hear it?" the soldier asked.

The centurion took her cues from General Tullius. "I said, next prisoner!" she snapped.

The man was clearly nervous. "To the block Ieago. Nice and easy."

I felt the tears flowing hot on my face as I walked to the block and the captain pushed me into the position. When I looked up at the headsman gripping his axe, I finally saw the cause of those strange calls. From the mountains over the executioner's shoulder, a black form flew.

"What in Oblivion is that?" Tullius swore.

"Sentries, what do you see?" the centurion called.

It landed on the tower in the center of the village. In the morning light I beheld a creature of wings, claws, and horns: a shape of darkness and terror. Not during my flight from Battlehorn Castle had I known such dread. It perched on the tower like a judge leaning over his pulpit; a judge who had condemned us long ago. Its two eyes pinpricks glowing like flames in a furnace. When it spoke its voice was like a clap of thunder directly overhead. The blast killed the headsman and sent me sprawling. Only General Tullius seemed to keep his wits, "Don't just stand there! Kill that thing! Guards! Get these people to safety!"

The world swam as rocks fell from the sky, shattering and burning upon hitting the earth. I discovered Ralof pulling me to my feet and shouting at me, "We have to get out of here! The Gods will not give us another chance!" He half dragged me into another tower in the wall of the town. I found myself in the presence of Jarl Ulfric and a few other rebels.

"Jarl Ulfric what is that thing? Can the legends be true?" Ralof asked in shock.

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric said. Poor Ralof was too stunned to reply. "We have to get out of here now!" Ulfric shouted to break the spell Ralof was under.

Ralof and I ran up the steps of the tower to help the soldier trying to clear the wreckage blocking access to the roof. As we came up to the landing, the wall burst in, the dragon immolating the poor man before flying off again. Stepping up to the new opening, I saw the total devastation the dragon had caused. Thinking back as I write this, I don't think more than two minutes had passed from the dragon first landing to that moment. Helgen, once a fortified town of about 2000 people, was a blazing ruin.

Ralof came up beside me, "See that inn on the other side Ieago? Jump through the roof and keep going!"

"What about you and the others?" I shouted above the roar of the fires and battle outside.

"We'll follow when we can! Just go!"

With that I leapt out over the gulf, landing awkwardly on my ankle in the second floor of the inn. Hobbling to an opening in the floor I dropped down. I felt my foot dislocate before the tendons could pull it back into place. I picked myself up and limped into the streets to see the familiar legionnaire and a civilian trying to talk a boy away from a man lying in the street. They only just succeeded when the dragon landed to finish the prostrate man off.

Looking around, the soldier spotted me, "Still alive prisoner? Keep close to me if you wish to stay that way! "Gunnar, take care of the boy! I have to find General Tullius and join the defense!"

Making our way to the town gate, we found the general rallying the few remaining soldiers. "Hadvar! Into the keep soldier! We're leaving!" Tullius commanded.

On the way Hadvar and Ralof collided with each other. "You aren't stopping us this time!" Ralof said.

"Ralof you traitor! Fine! I hope the dragon takes you all!" Hadvar yelled back.

I hobbled after Hadvar as Ralof ran off. Hadvar slammed the door bend me. The thick walls and cool air insulated us from the blazing calamity outside.


	3. Recruiters Pick the Most Awkward Times

**This is the first chapter to feature a significant amount of dialogue. If there is any doubt on who is speaking or you might have ideas on how to improve the clarity of my characters' thoughts, I would be thrilled to hear them. Again, Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

"Do you think more will be coming?" I asked in the sudden quiet. I began limping away from the door and over to where Hadvar was looking into a footlocker. In the sudden calm my excitement was wearing off and my foot and lungs were beginning to burn as a result.

Hadvar shook his head, "Looks like we're the only ones that made it. Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the end times?"

"It was a dragon," I agreed. "but I'll believe it's the end of the world when I see it. In the meantime, could you cut my binds?" With a sharp tug of his knife, the powerful man cut the ropes that had held my hands clasped in front of me.

"There should be some gear left in here somewhere," Hadvar said, "See what you can find for yourself while I find something for these burns."

Sure enough I found a set of battered Imperial skirmisher's armor, a helmet, and standard issue boots. The boots were splinted to offer protection and support to their wearer. For that I was grateful. Now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off, my ankle was throbbing and had a swollen patch on it the size of my thumb. On a wall rack I found a notched iron short sword. I gave it a few test thrusts. It was a mediocre blade at best. "It'll have to do," I said.

By now Hadvar had finished dressing his wounds, "Let's keep moving. That thing is still out there," He said

"Where to?" I asked.

"There should be another way out deeper in the keep," Hadvar replied.

"Lead the way."

Before too long, we heard the voices of two rebel soldiers in a chamber ahead. "Stromcloaks!" Hadvar hissed, "Maybe we can reason with them."

"I hope so. My month has already been too violent"

We came into the chamber slowly, hands at our sides. We had our hopes dashed immediately. The fight was short and sharp. The two battered Stormcloaks stood no chance against Hadvar.

Hadvar and I crept onward, looting a store room and fighting another handful of rebel soldiers. In that room I found a healing potion. I downed it in one gulp and immediately the fluid started working on my ankle, easing the pain and giving me full motion again. I felt great again just in time to feel awful entering the next room.

"Our torture chamber," Hadvar explained, "Gods, I wish we didn't need these."

"We don't," I answered.

We came into the interrogation room just in time to see the torturer and his assistant finish off another pair of escaped rebels. The jailor did not believe Hadvar's report. Feeling no need to speak with the sadist, I began to search the dead. I came up with a few lock picks and a dagger. Looking into the prisoner cages, I saw the body of a man in mage's robes. Picking the lock, I helped myself to the few coins he had and a spell tome on healing.

"Oh please! Go ahead and take all my things," the torturer said sarcastically.

"You'll be fine," I said in the same tone.

Things might have gone ill if the interrogator's assistant hadn't offered to guide us to a cave that let out well south of the town walls.

Hadvar and I at length made it out of Helgen. We crouched among the rocks watching the dragon fly off toward the north.

At last I felt like speaking again, "Thank you for all of this Hadvar. I'd be ashes in a street if not for you."

The burly man placed his hand on my shoulder, "You are clearly a man of bravery and worth, Ieago," he answered. "Listen, you should think about joining the Legion. We could really use someone like you."

"Are you serious? Your Legion just tried to kill me!"

"I know it wasn't the best of introductions, but if the Stormcloaks have themselves a dragon, we need all the help we can get. As far as I'm concerned, you've already earned your pardon."

We walked along the road in silence for a while. I thought back to the behavior of the two sides in the battle only an hour ago. The first words out of General Tullius' mouth when the dragon landed were for the safety of the civilians in Helgen. When I saw him last, he was rallying his soldiers to make a retreat. Ulfric had left his troops scattered behind to ensure his own escape.

"I'll consider it," I said at last. "Where are we going now?"

"My Uncle Alvor is a smith in Riverwood a few miles from here. I'm sure he would be willing to help us."

Hours later we discovered that Alvor, his wife Sigrid, and their daughter Dorthe were very accommodating to Hadvar and me. Alvor was decent enough to buy the rusted iron sword I found in Helgen and between that, and some few coins I looted from the dead during my escape; I was just able to afford a proper steel claymore. I also took the time to read through that spell tome on healing I found. The magic was surprisingly easy to learn. I resolved to study magic more fully in the future. In return for his hospitality, Alvor has asked me to go to his Jarl, Ballgruff the Greater, in Whiterun. So far as we knew, no other news of the dragon's attack had come north out of Helgen. I slept well that night and woke ready for the three-day trek at dawn.

* * *

I had a busy few days after reaching Whiterun. The night was old and the sky almost overcast by the time I got within sight of the walls of Whiterun, one of the largest human settlements in Skyrim.

It was through the farms surrounding the city that I was walking when I encountered yet another fight. I saw two people in a nearby field circling a giant; dodging the swings of its massive club. The club connected with one of the attackers, sending the man sprawling several yards away. I had only just taken his place when an arrow passed above me. The giant fell back with the fletching of an arrow sticking out through the bridge of his nose.

"Well that's taken care of. No thanks to you," a deep woman's voice said behind me.

I returned my sword to its shoulder harness and shrugged, "You don't seem to have needed my help," I replied turning to face the archer.

"Certainly not, but even the rawest of the Companions would have rushed to join the battle."

"Who are the Companions? I've only just come to Skyrim."

She snorted her derision, as if I had been living under a rock all my twenty-eight years. "You've never heard of the Companions? We are an order of warriors: brothers and sisters in honor. And we show up to fight if the coin is good enough."

I couldn't believe my good fortune. I had stumbled on a contact with the local Fighter's Guild. I was a skilled ranger and keenly aware that Alvor's charity would only get me so far. "Could I join the Companions?" I asked. Even the man prostrate on the ground nearby snickered at my hope.

"You? A Companion?" the woman looked my scrawny, raggedly clothed form up and down and laughed, "Not for me to say. If you think you have what it takes, talk to Kodlak Whitemane up in Jorrvaskr."

"My thanks. And I'll be quicker to the fight next time," I replied, turning to continue down the road.

I paused for a moment. I turned and saw the other woman in the fight helping the battered man to his feet. A break in the clouds revealed the woman I had been speaking with to be tall and slender. "You never told me your name," I said.

"I am called Aela the Huntress," she answered. The clouds broke further in that moment, and as the starlight caught her eyes, I could swear in the instant before the overcast closed again they were glowing green.

"I am Sir Ieago of Kavatch, a Knight of the Nine," I said, hoping that using my full title would impress them as I walked off. Some distance later as I was crossing the first of two drawbridges that lead to Whiterun's gates. On an impulse, I turned to look back on the three Companions in the distance. Something about that woman pressed on my mind.

One of the local soldiers blocked my path as I approached the gate at last, "Halt outsider! By order of the Jarl, the gates are barred to all strangers until sunrise."

I had just spent the last two nights sleeping in ragged legionnaire armor in the foothills between the settlements. Screw sleeping at the gate. "I am sent here by Alvor, the smith in Riverwood. The people there call for the Jarl's aid. I also bring news of an attack on Helgen."

The guard was a blessedly intelligent man, "The Jarl will want to hear of this at once. Just keep going uphill, you can't miss Dragonsreach."

He was absolutely correct: It's hard to get lost in that admirable city. Whiterun is a large walled city terracing up a low mountain with a large castle perched on the peak. The lowest tiers of the city are occupied by a small industrial section. Here you could find smelters, tanneries, smithies, and the larger warehouses. Further up, the market stalls and wealthier stores surround open cul-de-sacs; though they were deserted at that early hour of the morning. At the foot of the last rise to the palace was wide and comparatively flat space. Here most of the townsfolk lived and the mansions of the two oldest families in town were found: the feuding Grey-Manes and Battle-Borns. The rest of the space was given over to a temple and plaza dedicated to Kynerath. Separated by a bubbling stream flowing down from the palace and through the city streets was a statue and shrine to Talos in quiet defiance of the White-Gold Concordant. Nearby were the stairs leading to the hall of Jorrvaskr: an old longship converted into the Comanions' headquarters.

I pushed open the doors of Dragonsreach to discover Jarl Balgruuf holding court late that night. As I approached the throne of Dragonsreach his housecarl, a Dunmer approached me with sword drawn to learn my errand. Irileth was caustic and rude; but in retrospect I did look like a beggar coming in for a handout: I was in the tattered ruminants of a stranger's armor, my face sported two weeks of unshaved growth, my body reeked from days spent sleeping outside. Yet she found my news to be of sufficient importance to send me forward.


	4. Job Interview

**Again, Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. I realize that very little happens in this chapter to further the plot, but I feel that some time should be dedicated to introducing some of the primary characters and Ieago's attitudes toward others. I hope this will pay off in future chapters. If you have any feedback on wether or not this method is worth while or if you know a more efficient way, I welcome your thoughts and am grateful for them.**

* * *

My impression of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater was and remains favorable. He struck me as an astute and capable leader caught in a bad situation. In regards to the ongoing civil war, his only real loyalty was to his hold. He understood how badly his citizens would suffer if open war came to his gates; regardless of the locals' opinions on the conflict. As a person, Balgruuf cared little for the Empire though he recognized its claim to his loyalty. On the other hand he detested Ulfric but acknowledged the justice of the Stormcloak's cause. Caught between the two equal impulses, all he sought for was safety for his people.

The scene at the dais mirrored the larger tension that drove his policy making. He was caught that evening between his conservative Imperial steward Avenicci and his war-mongering younger brother Hrongar. They were discussing how they were going to respond to the latest messages from the Empire without making Whiterun a target for Stormcloak ire. Between the two arguing men, the Jarl was trying to find the best course for Whiterun.

The argument between the steward and the Jarl's brother stopped as I approached the dais and Irileth introduced me. The Jarl was a man of decision and soon a company of soldiers was dispatched to Riverwood. For my news and initiative, I received as a reward of a suit of leather armor and was bidden to stay the night in the Bannered Mare Inn at the city's expense. The barflies had gone home by that ungodly hour of the morning and I was soon in bed myself after a meal of lukewarm cold cuts on bread.

I woke late to a light breakfast and a note from Dragonsreach asking me to remain in town for the next few days at the Jarl's pleasure. My first stop as I stepped out of the inn was the public pools at the foot of the palace to get cleaned up and then to a barber for a cut and a shave. When at last the barber stood me up and turned me to a mirror, I liked what I saw. Weeks of beard, filth, and violence had left me barely human. Now I looked better than I had when I joined the Knights of the Nine.

I am not a large or physically powerful man. My lean five feet eight inches and 140-pound frame tends toward scrawniness. My muscles are hard and wiry from years of work and a life spent outdoors. Before joining the Knights I had been a ranger in Kavatch's surrounding lands; chasing poachers and convicts on that high rocky flatland on the border between the Gold Coast and Colovia. I must have ranged from Kavatch to Chorrol and down to Anvil a hundred times. In town, I had often trained with the guards with the blade and in hand-to-hand combat. My parents had given me dark red hair that bleached copper in the summer and dark blue-grey eyes beneath a low brow. Their upbringing gave me a posture and grace that convinced most people to give me credit for being taller. My almost thirty years in the sun gave my square, heavy-boned face a weather-beaten cast and laugh lines. My few lovers have called me 'rugged'. Others less fond of me said I perpetually looked 'grim and frustrated'. The red hair was now very short and lightly oiled. I took advantage of the two week's growth to at last sport a respectable goatee: a goal that had eluded me for years. Stubbornly, my skin refused to tan, leaving me perpetually fair-skinned or a sunburned mass of peeling skin.

Stop three was the smithy called Warmaiden's to get the jarl's leather armor fitted. By selling my old Imperial armor, I was just able to afford her services and a slight modification: a vertical diamond dyed red with a thin gold border carved into the right shoulder pad. This was the badge of the Knights of the Nine and one that would be associated with me through all my adventures since.

At last as the sun passed the noon I headed for Jorrvaskr to apply for a job. I stepped in just as two of the Companions began an after-lunch fist fight. By the talk of the spectators, this was nothing unusual between the Nord woman and the Dunmer man trading blows. The two clearly were not out to kill each other, but neither did they pull their punches.

I looked about and found one of the three I had seen in the flight with the giant last night. "Welcome to Jorrvaskr, Ieago. I am Farkas." he said.

"I'm glad to see you recovered from last night Farkas," I replied sincerely. "Tell me, who are you people? What is this place?"

"We are the Companions. This is our home. We fight so others don't have to," Farkas explained as a wet sounding thump ended the fight in the woman's favor.

"I was told to ask for Kodlak if I should come here."

"He'll be in the under hall with my brother Vilkas."

Nodding my thanks, I stepped down with the sense that there were eyes on me. The under hall was the below-ground living quarters of the sixty or so warriors that then made up the Companions of Ysgramor. The place struck me as well-kept, but past the days of its prime. Obviously, several hundred people could have lived here at one time. As I came into Kodlak Whitemane's chambers, I overheard him speaking with Vilkas.

Farkas' brother was evidently his twin. They shared the same jet black hair, dark complexion, and muscle-bound frame. In contrast to his almost monosylabic brother Farkas however, Vilkas was articulate. His conversation with Kodlak was unsettling somehow and patently not for my ears. "But I still hear the call of the blood," Vilkas said to Kodlak as I came in.

"We all do. That is our burden to bear. But it can be overcome," Kodlak consoled him. Vilkas sighed and looked down, "Farkas and I are with you of course, but some of the others might resent your aims."

"Leave that to me Vilkas. For now though, a stranger comes to our hall," The old man said as they turned their attention to me.

I have long ago come to the conclusion that Nords and Cyrodiils, as we Imperials are properly known, are two very different types of human. Neither inherently better than the other, just completely different. It's more than the physical tendencies too. An Imperial nobleman may well be an honorable and gracious gentleman. He may display the traits of an effective leader; but with few exceptions, he will not have the same bearing as a Nord in a similar station. Our inborn charisma makes us Imperials smooth. The best of us are sophisticated and urbane and the worst of us arrogant and sleazy. The worst Nords are bigots and thugs, possessed of avarice equal to that of any Cyrodiil miser. The best Nords by contrast, are dignified and brave. With only a few exceptions, the Emperor Titus Mede II and General Tullius being prime examples, we Cyrodiils lack that gravitas that most Nords possess as a matter of breeding. Sketching a polite bow came as a reflex while Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, turned to look me over.

"I was directed here by Farkas," I explained, "I would like to know more about the Companions and what it means to be one."

"The Companions trace their lineage back to the days of Ysgramor and his 500 companions," Kodlak began with deep pride resonating in is voice. "Since that time we have been many things: ruthless conquerors, a drunken rabble, mercenaries for hire, and the esteemed company you see before you. Throughout our 4000 years of history only one thing has bound us together: Honor. In all your endeavors you act in a way that would make your brothers and sisters proud to share the title of Companion and to have fought beside you."

My father's brother officers from his days in the Legion told me he used to be a hard man to please, but one who always took care of his people. In response, the soldiers under him had followed him through some of the fiercest fighting of a brutal war. Early in my days working as a ranger for Kavatch's guard, I found that I worked best for the officers who made sure I had the equipment and training I needed. Eight years ago, when I found the Knights of the Nine at their hidden priory one evening, I learned that order of warriors acted on similar principles. As my responsibilities with the Knights grew I did my best to emulate my predecessors and relished in the resulting esteem and trust. One of the worst days in my life was the day I ran from Battlehorn Castle where I had failed so many people. I looked into the eyes of the aging Harbinger while he gazed impassively back. I glanced at Vilkas and found a barely restrained contempt. Yet within both gazes, I found two men who would stop at nothing to help their own.

I didn't hesitate to ask again, "May I join the Companions?"

Kodlak looked at me for some minutes in silence. "Perhaps. I sense certain strength of spirit in you. Vilkas, take him out to the yard. See if he can fight."

"We aren't seriously considering letting him join are we?" Vilkas protested, "I've never even heard of this man before!"

"Some are already famous when they come to us. Others come to us to seek their fame," Kodlak said evenly. "It matters little so long as they have honor and skill. And last I looked; this hall has more than a few empty beds. So take Ieago to the exercise yard and see what he can do."

Vilkas stood up and brushed past me, "Follow me whelp," he called over his shoulder.

"I am Ieago," I corrected.

"Until you're one of us that doesn't matter a goddamn bit," he replied from half way down the corridor.

I strode into the mid-afternoon light of the Companions' practice yard with its commanding view of the tundra and distant mountains to the north. Vilkas was waiting for me with his own two-handed sword drawn. A few of the others from the hall were out to watch the sparring match. I grabbed my own claymore and stepped into the light.

People have asked me in the past, why does a man who favors light armor; a man possessed of a lean frame; use such a heavy weapon as a two-hander? The simple facts are that I use light armor because I prefer to be able to move rapidly. My fighting style has always involved lots of movement. I like claymores because I need the extra mass of those weapons to deal telling damage in battles where I'm pitted against larger, heavily armored foes. I don't advertise this, but I often place lead strips in the pommels of my claymores to give them more control in my hands. It's a challenge being a meager five feet eight inches and 140 pounds in a fight where six feet and 200 is the next smallest man.

My match against Vilkas began without ceremony as we raised our blades and assumed fighting stances. Vilkas' predictable choice would have been to use the mass of his body and armor in an overhead chop to drive me out of the ring. He and I were too experienced for that kind of crap. Instead he used his five-foot sword as a spear right toward my sternum. I sent my blade vertical and pushed Vilkas' off to the right of my body. Time seemed to slow as I grabbed the upper quarter of my sword and reversed it as I moved to step past him. The crosspiece of my sword swept up into his face and used the momentum of my forward step to reinforce the blow. The loud clank told me he had turned his head to let his helmet take the blow and then he was behind me.

I resumed my stance and waited for him to set himself again. Polite applause for me and words of encouragement for Vilkas came from the spectators. Vilkas shook himself out and set himself again. This time I took the offensive in the classic overhand rush to see how he'd respond. He knew I could not put enough strength behind the attack to stagger him and simply held his sword crosswise to mine above his head. The shock of the blow stunned my arms and his boot in my stomach sent me onto my backside.

He and I spent the next hour in exchanging blows of this kind; each of us demonstrating their skill to the other. He seemed satisfied, "Alright whelp. You fight well enough so count yourself in-provisionally. Just remember that you're the newblood around here so you have to do what we tell you. Take my sword up to the Skyforge and have Eorlund put an edge on it."

Eorlund was the Companions' resident smith. He was not a member himself, but on retainer; and he was a master of his trade. The steel that he forges from the eternal flame of the Skyforge is light, strong, and keeps a phenomenal edge. The only things matching its durability are the blades of the Dragur in their crypts or the expensive moonstone and malachite blades of the Thalmor. He gave me some advice too, "You're new around here so the others are going to try to boss you around. Just remember that nobody outranks anybody else in the Companions."

"But what of Kodlak? He seems to be in charge around here," I said.

"Only in the loosest sense. He is the Harbinger. People follow him out of respect and affection, not because he holds any real rank and none have sworn to his service. While you're up here, could you do me a favor and deliver this shield to Aela? My wife is in mourning right now and I shouldn't delay returning home."

"Didn't you just tell me I shouldn't let people boss me around?"

"Now lad, there's a fine line between standing up for yourself and being an asshole. Don't be an asshole."

"Of course, Eorlund. I'll see she gets it."

"I think you'll do just fine here, Ieago," he said as he turned for home.

* * *

I'm glad I got myself cleaned up that morning. The night Aela the Huntress and I first met had been dark and overcast with a late and waxing set of moons. All I had seen of Aela was the curiously glowing gold-green eyes and the silhouette of a tall, athletic woman. The warm late afternoon light filtering down to the under hall revealed a creature to stop my heart. Aela was not as tall as she seemed last night. She stood less than an inch taller than I, average for a Nord woman. She was my age or at most a year older. Her legs and arms were long, muscular, and graceful. Her auburn red hair was worn parted in the middle and fell loose and strait to the bottom her shoulder blades. Her eye shadow and diagonal slashes of war paint forced attention to her large, pale grey eyes. Thin and delicate lips begged to be kissed. Her armor looked like it came from the distant past, like she had taken it from the dragur and not bothered to repair it. Only a few strips of leather seemed to keep a collection of iron plates and patches of fine chain together as they hung from her frame. The armor revealed pale and flawless skin with her every motion.

I entered the quarters in the under hall she shared with Skjor, another Companion held in high regard. Once again, I caught the tail end of a conversation decidedly not intended for the public. These two seemed to be discussing Kodlak's leadership and I got the impression that these were the two that Vilkas had referred to earlier on.

Not wishing to be caught gazing at Aela's numerous charms and afraid of being accused of eavesdropping; I did the only brave and honorable thing I could think of: I cleared my throat to get their attention and held Aela's shield out to her.

"Ah! I've been waiting for this. Wait," she said, looking at me more closely. "I remember you. So the Old Man thinks you've got some heart I guess." She seemed pleased at the notion.

"You know this one? I saw him training in the yard with Vilkas," Skjor said. He had the look of one of the men my father led in the war: A lean muscular soldier with one eye and a grizzled face.

"It was a good workout," I confirmed.

Seeing her smile was a delight, though it was predatory somehow, "Ah yes, I heard you gave him quite a thrashing Ieago."

"Don't let Vilkas catch you saying that," Skjor snorted. He cast his good eye over me a second time.

"Do you think you could handle him in a real fight?" Aela asked me.

The moment of truth: If I answer correctly, I get their respect. "Vilkas possesses a singular ruthlessness," I replied honestly. Vilkas was a man to go for the kill. "If I really was his enemy, I'd be dead right now."

A more genuine smile was on her face now, with a touch of surprise. I suspect she had been screening for boasting or false modesty. "A man of reflection I see. I'll have Farkas show you to your quarters where the rest of the newbloods sleep."

"You said my name?" asked a gravelly voice above and just behind my ear. Suppressing the reflex to jump nearly launched my spine out the top of my skull. No one that huge and wearing plate armor should be able to get that close in total silence.

"Of course we did ice-brain!" she replied. "Show this whelp where the rest of the newbloods sleep."

"Newblood? Oh. You. Come on, follow me," Farkas said, turning back to the hallway.

I followed him in silence, feeling very much the stranger among a group of close friends. His conversation was forced at best. "Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they're good people. They challenge us all to be our best. It's nice to have a new face around. It gets boring around here. Anyway, our newbloods are kept in here. Just pick an empty cot and toss your things onto it."

"What of work?" I asked.

"You'll be coming to me, Aela, and my brother for jobs. Skjor will occasionally have something special that needs to be done. But don't worry about it tonight. I'll have something for you tomorrow morning. Supper will be on the table upstairs by now."

Tossing my great sword and my few things onto the cot, I hurried up to the table in the main hall for my first meal at Jorrvaskr's board. Being the newest in the group, I naturally had the worst seat. Way out on the edge, to my left was the door and to the right was the third most junior member. She was a taciturn and offensive woman called Njada Strongarm. My every attempt to ask her about herself or even the nature of the Companions was met with anger and sarcasm.

Looking around at the others, I saw a more collegial atmosphere. Aela's hand was often touching Skjor's I saw. Towards the end of what was turning out to be a lonely and uncomfortable meal, two things saved me from enduring more of Njada's verbal abuse. One was a runner from Dragonsreach asking for my presence "at my very next convenience" and the other was Farkas getting up to meet me at the door. "I hope we keep you," he said, "It can be a rough life." I put my hand on his bicep in thanks and stepped out for Dragonsreach.

* * *

**Hmm... These chapters are getting progressively longer. I'd like to keep them under 4000 words apiece and ideally under 2000. When I read other people's work on I find those lengths work best to keep my interest. As always, I'm grateful for any constructive feedback.**


	5. Among the Dead

**Again, Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. The light saber concept belongs to Lucasfilm.**

* * *

Farengar Secret-Fire had an interesting task for me that evening. Jarl Balgruuf introduced to his court mage and walked off. Farengar wanted me to delve into a Nordic ruin called Bleak Falls Barrow to retrieve an artifact called the Dragon Stone. Evidently, this would help him figure out where the dragon that attacked Helgen came from.

I found all this a bit too convenient. "Farengar, are you positive your information source is reliable? What can you tell me about this barrow?" I asked.

"My information sources must remain anonymous, Ieago. As for the barrow, it's likely to be _filled_ with Draugr. They are undead Nordic warriors you know. Nobody knows how they came to be anymore. They seem to exist to protect important relics and the graves of the priests who once ruled Skyrim before the Dragons were driven to extinction."

Okay, so not terribly convenient. "If the dragons are extinct, where did this last one come from?" I asked.

"I'm hoping that this Dagonstone will shed some light on that mystery. Now off you go. The Jarl is not a patient man. Neither am I, come to think of it," he replied.

So I found myself the next day leaving the marginal comforts of Jorrvaskr to hike up a mountain to a ruined necropolis filled with undead for a treasure that might or might not be useful at all.

As it turned out, Bleak Falls Barrow was both better and worse than I thought it would be. A group of bandits led by a Dunmer called Arvel the Swift were trying to breach the tomb. As I came up his thugs attacked me on sight. None were particularly challenging and in the end I would up taking his journal and the golden claw-shaped key to the inner chamber of the barrow from his dead body. He had run into a trio of draugr while trying to evade me. Those same undead attacked me, but I was a better fighter than poor Arvel.

Further on in the crypt I encountered the desiccated body of a Kajiit man wearing the reminants of a mage's robe. Surrounding him were the neatly cut bodies of several draugr. Examining this morbid display more closely, I found the slain Kajiit was clutching a short metal cylinder. Picking it up, I noticed one end had a large amethyst embedded in a small basket and a sliding switch was mounted on one side. Holding the tube upright, I was startled by the strange snap-hiss noise of a three and a half foot blade of glowing purple light springing out from the gem. A low vibrating hum wavered as I swept the blade before me.

A few test swings revealed that I had found a remarkable weapon. The tube, now a hilt, was long enough to be gripped with two hands if I needed leverage and the weightless blade was perfect for one-handed use as well. The blade itself behaved like the sharpest saber I have ever handled. I felt minimal resistance as I cut the flesh of one of the draugr at my feet, leaving a very fine line in the dead Nord's mummified skin. I hoped that Farengar could guide me in making another one. I'm not wild about purple.

Otherwise there is little to tell about Bleak Falls. I came away with a few gemstones and pieces of gold from the bandits and dragur I killed. I had not made a habit of grave-robbing until that time, but being penniless was getting old. I also decided to haul along an ancient claymore as a souvenir.

Farengar's Dragonstone was still in the barrow after all the centuries of looters. I found it in a large chamber exposed to the light of day from above. On the large dais under a hole in the ceiling, was a large and ominous looking alcove. Its centerpiece was an engraving of a dragon's face near the top in a brassy orichalcum relief and a series of scratches and dots covering the inside curve beneath. In front of this large concave work were a low table and a sarcophagus. A monument of some kind I supposed.

As I stepped closer it came to me that the marks beneath the dragon carving were letters. A small portion appeared to glow and burned into my eyes. I found that I understood the meaning of the letters in front of me. The glowing word was "_Fus_," it meant "Force." Soon the rest of the words on the wall gained meaning for me:

"_Here lies the Guardian:_

_Keeper of the Dragonstone._

_And a force of unending_

_rage and darkness._"

As the ominous inscription came into me, my vision shifted. All was black until I pushed forward, shattering the dark and allowing the light of day to reach my straining eyes. The world shifted around me. Standing nearby was a man in new leather armor, he was gazing into the alcove of my memorial.

I returned to myself with the sound of breaking of stone behind me. A powerful looking draugr had shifted the stone lid of his coffin and now he was making his way toward me. His challenge was a shout that reminded me of the ones the dragon had used at Helgen, but less fearsome. His call tore into my chest. It was a reverberating demand that I drop my weapon. My willpower held out and we clashed, a glowing blade against one so old the metal was green-black.

I had dropped several other draugr in that crypt already, but this one was more dangerous by far. Each collision shocked my arms to the core. Each parry felt like it was about to wrench my shoulders out of place. More than once as we traded cuts I had to back off and cast the healing spell I had learned to get my bleeding under control.

For a fraction of a second the tireless creature lowered its guard, allowing me to parry and step inside its reach. I got a good hit in at last, both hands driving the tip of my blade into the creature's desiccated core.

Mystified and unnerved, I made my way out of that horrible place. The nightmare at my camp near Whiterun's western watchtower was vivid enough to wake the small garrison. They were not sorry to see me depart for Whiterun.

The merchant Belethor was only too happy to extend me a line of credit in trade for the large, well-cut gems from Bleak Falls. At Dragonsreach, Farengar was no less pleased by my efforts, offering me a few hundred septims for my efforts. A hooded woman in leather armor similar to mine was with him. She frequently referenced "her employers" and their excitement at my find, but I'm not sure who she thinks she was fooling.

* * *

**So much for lore-friendliness. Being a life-long Star Wars fan, I practically squealed with delight when I came across Lord Huan's superb ****_Magicka Sabers_**** mod at Skyrim Nexus. While I do make this weapon a significant part of Ieago's character, I hope its inclusion is not so intrusive as to alienate potential readers.**


	6. At the West Tower

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

Days later, the shadows in Jorrvaskr's courtyard had begun to get longer when a runner from Dragonsreach burst into the hall again. The politeness was gone, "Jarl Balgruuf demands your presence immediately," he panted.

Running ahead of the page, I was greeted at the door by the Jarl's steward, Proventus. "What's going on?" I asked.

The steward turned and beckoned for me to follow. In a conference area behind the throne, I discovered the Jarl with his advisors surrounding a battered-looking soldier of the Whiterun militia.

"I came as fast as I could, lord," I said, sketching a bow.

Jarl Balgruuf pointed at me, "Tell that man EXACTLY what you told me," he commanded the solider.

"A dragon has been spotted circling the west watch tower. It hasn't attacked yet, but I was sent to get help," he said.

"And you did well soldier," the Jarl's brother confirmed. "You are dismissed. Head down to the barracks and get something to eat."

Jarl Balgruuf turned to me, "You are to go with Irileth and a detachment of soldiers to the watchtower. You're the only person here who's seen a dragon in a fight. That experience would be useful. And you Irileth, do not get yourself killed." I swallowed on a dry throat and nodded while my stomach knotted tight.

"It will take more than a winged lizard to kill me, my lord," Irileth boasted.

In full gear of war the twenty of us walked the few miles toward the shattered and smoldering tower. As we came near, a battered looking guard came running up to us.

"What happened soldier?" Irileth called.

"The dragon!" He cried, "It came out of nowhere and burned us all! Gods save us it's coming back!"

There was no time for panic. The wind beating beneath the creature's wings was the only warning we had as the dragon stormed out of the setting sun. We scattered as the creature sent a column of fire at us. Only Irileth's adamantine discipline allowed us to reform.

The Whiterun guards are respectable archers and all had bows pointed for the dragon's next pass. As the dragon swooped down at us, they were able to get in some shrewd hits.

I sent arrows up with a borrowed bow. But the truth is that for all my skill and grace with a blade, I am an indifferent archer.

The dragon's attacks reminded me of cavalry I had once seen exercising near Anvil far to the south. The dragon would climb to altitude before turning and diving hard. He would make a long descent, gaining speed and breathing fire in a long line on the dry grass, driving us into the ring of the tower's broken wall and choking us with smoke. With each pass the brushfire grew, forcing us back into those walls. Each time, we sent a handful of arrows, some sticking into his scales, but most flying uselessly as the dragon banked hard around the tower to shield his withdrawal.

The dragon soon had us all tight within the ring of the tower's wall. Eight men were dead already, caught by the dragon's scalding breath. Like those knights riding on their field back home, the dragon sensed victory. From a prodigious height he began a steep descent, breathing fire in a tight, lethal column upon the confines of our wall. At the nadir of this descent he spread his wings to hover for an instant on his scaled pinions. The rushing wind from his maneuver spread the flame in a circle of heat, fear, and pain.

But the dragon had not accounted for Irileth's experience and iron will. She stood out in the burning courtyard, seemingly immune to the heat. Her powerful voice screamed at us to shoot into its shoulders.

Our remaining darts flew into the thin flexible scales, tearing the muscle and ligaments beneath. The dragon's tons of muscle and scale landed before Irileth's feet, blasting her back.

The moment of crisis had come. The crippled dragon thrashed and spouted fire in his desperation to keep us at bay. My comrades and I dove as the dragon vomited flame at us. Picking himself up, one man found the dragon's mouth above him and he was bit nearly in half as the creature whipped its neck to fling him. Men coming up behind were smacked away with the sweep of its tail. Seeing my opening I rushed forward.

All goes blank for me. Even days later, retelling the story to my drunken friends in Jorrvaskr the details were hard to credit. No blade, however sharp could easily pierce the crests on a dragon's face. My violet blade bounced off the ancient scales in a spray of sparks. But the shock forced the dragon to lurch its head down for an instant. In the blink of an eye I stepped onto the dragon's head and used its snout as a spring board to launch myself high while pointing my blade downward. I came straight down, my weight plunging the point of the sword through the tough bone of the beast's skull. The spasms of the dragon's death flung me hard to the ground. Irileth gave me a hand up and we turned with the rest of the guards to look on the corpse of the monster.

As we gazed the dragon began to burn with a gold flame that consumed its flesh like centuries of decay in seconds. The flame reached out and wrapped around me, spiraling into my chest. I was too shocked for fear, and the sensation, while strange, was not painful. Then the visions came, one after the other some so fast they were an incomprehensible blur; others so slow I could view them like a painting. The life and deeds of Mirmulnir the dragon, flashing before my eyes at the moment of his death.

"By the gods, what is this?" I asked as the flames died down. Only the skeleton and tattered pieces of scale remained. I turned to face the soldiers. To a man they looked on me with awe.

"You're Dragonborn!" The eldest of them cried.

"I'm what?"

"The Dragonborn. From the oldest tales. Men who are said are said to have the ability to absorb the souls of dragons. That's what you did isn't it?" the veteran guard explained.

"I don't really know. I just felt hot and now I don't feel any different."

"There is one way to find out. The Dragonborn can shout like the dragons do. See if you can shout in the dragon tongue."

I knew one word for sure in dragon language. Gathering my breath I shouted "_Fus_" at the top of my lungs. The shockwave staggered the soldier. I clapped my hand over my mouth in embarrassment and sock, "Are you hurt?" I finally managed.

"It's true! By Ysmir you are Dragonborn!" The man exclaimed.

"I don't know what to say. I-what am I supposed to do with this?"

"What do you think, Irileth? You've been awfully quiet on this." asked another soldier.

"I think soldiers should not be talking on things they know nothing about," she snapped.

"Ah, you don't understand Housecarl, you ain't a Nord," the first soldier replied.

"Why I've been all over Tamriel," Irileth said. "I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I know that this is a dead dragon. I know we can kill them. And we don't need some mythical Dragonborn to do it for us. That is enough for me."

Irileth's attitude was a cold shower after the fight. "I agree with Irileth. We killed this dragon before I was told I was hot shit. We didn't need anything special to bring it down." I said.

"Whatever you say Dragonborn, I'm glad you're on our side." the guard replied.

"I was and remain Ieago. Now let's go home. The Jarl will want to hear of our victory."

At that we began to pick our way through the spreading ring of the brush fire the dragon had started.


	7. A Knight of the City

**Again, Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworkks. I hope you all enjoyed our first dragon-slaying in the previous chapter. It's one of several that I have planned out. I always felt let down by the contrast between how much the dragons were talked up by other characters and the near uniformity and bad tactics of the actual encounters. They could be challenging, but uninspired. I hope the wild fire and a 50% casualty rate improved interest and added somewhat to their element of threat.**

* * *

Our return to Whiterun sparked an eventful evening for the seven of us that survived the battle. Upon entering Dragonsreach, the Jarl sequestered and interviewed each of us in turn with his steward Proventus and his brother Hrongar in attendance. When at last they were through we were assembled before Balgruuf's throne.

"You have slain the first dragon in centuries," the Jarl said to us, "It is fitting that each of you should be honored in some way. "Irileth, once again your prowess has been a tremendous service to me. If there is anything in my hoard that you desire, it is yours. I reserve only that sword."

"Thank you my Jarl," she replied.

"To you men of Whiterun's Guard, I give a bounty of 500 septims each. Further, you are authorized to paint your shields with a dragon's claw instead of the usual city seal to mark your achievement." The soldiers cheered their lord and his generosity.

Jarl Balgruuf turned to me, "And you, my friend. By all accounts, you were the one to actually slay the dragon and some say that you are Dragonborn. Ever since you arrived here in Whiterun you have rendered tremendous services to me and my city," He stood up, drawing his sword as he beckoned me up to the top step of his dais. I came up and knelt as he placed the heavy blade on my right shoulder.

"I name you Ieago, Thane of Whiterun," he said, the flat of the sword pressing firmly down on my shoulder. "The title of Thane is the highest honor that is in my power to give. With this title, you are granted the right to own property, the guards will know to look the other way for minor transgressions, and you have the right to a personal housecarl to serve and guard you and all that is yours. In return you are a champion of my household and soldier of my city. You will be obligated to defend Whiterun from any invader, to defend my family with your life, and restore to me or my heirs that which is ours if I am driven from this hall."

The Jarl removed the blade from my shoulder. I stood again as Proventus the steward handed Jarl Balgruuf a huge orichalcum war axe. "I present to you this Axe of Whiterun to serve as your badge of office," I lowered my head and took the massive weapon in both hands, "And I appoint Lydia to be your Housecarl."

"This is all too much to take in, my lord," I answered sincerely, "I don't know how to express my gratitude."

"Go forth, Ieago. It is our honor to have you among us," the Jarl dismissed.

Bowing low to the Jarl, I turned next to Proventus, "My house man requires a house, Master Avenicci. Is there any property to be had within the walls?"

The steward looked awkward, "Breezehome, next to Warmaiden's is available for 5000 septims; though the house has been abandoned for years. It's in marginal condition and almost completely unfurnished."

"Furniture and repairs can be bought," I replied, "I have a large line of credit with the merchant Belethor. Here is 200 in earnest money now. Belethor'll be able to supply you with the 4800 in the morning if you give me the key now."

The steward was pleased with this arrangement and I turned to leave the hall as the proud owner of what I found later to be a serious fixer-upper.

I was curious next about my new housecarl. Back in Kavatch, the knights of the town were also authorized to retain men-at-arms and I confess that I was nervous. The men-at-arms of my homeland were hit or miss, yet uniformly scarred and uncouth. The best were aging veterans who knew their way around a battlefield while blinded by their enemies' gore. Most however, were hopelessly incompetent members of the town watch the Count wanted out of the way of the better soldiers. You knew one was behind you at the tavern because you could smell them through the rest of the reek; the women just as bad as the men with worn and gravelly voices to boot. I just wanted to find out what kind of overage she-beast I would be saddled with and figure out if she was competent in a fight.

A few armed men and women were standing at the door, most fitting the descriptions above. Looking at the older of the two women with expectation, I was surprised when the youngest one came up and addressed me. "Honored to serve you, my Thane. I am sworn to guard you and all you own with my life," Lydia said in a clear young voice.

Looking this maiden up and down came as a reflex, resetting quickly to her narrow green eyes. Much like Skyrim itself, she was both large and beautiful. She had the body of a champion swimmer: curvy, sleek, and muscular all at once. Her steel armor fit like a second inch-thick skin. Her lips were large and pillowy and her raven hair was kept in a series of thin braids.

"This do I hear Lydia the Housecarl," I replied, hoping my staring had not been too obvious. I was worried about embarrassing the young woman. I would be surprised if she had seen 20 years. I also hoped that the correct answer to her oath was not too far from the one I was familiar with in Cyrodiil, "And I will not fail to reward fealty with love and valor with honor."

The odd pause afterward indicated that I had not been completely off the mark, but I had not hit the bull's-eye either. "Lead me to Jorrvaskr" I commanded her. I could understand her embarrassment. Assigned to a stranger and worse an outsider, she was now a servant to a man with barely a roof over his head and by his own count nearly 5000 septims in debt.

We walked silently in the light of Masser and Secunda. I noticed that Lydia looked just as good from behind as we strode up the steps to the Companion's hall. She held the door for me and I strode in, all conversation stopping as I came into the light of the hearth. She came in and shut the door behind me. I raised the Axe of Whiterun above my head, "I done got thaned!" I hollered. The roaring, howling, table-pounding, foot-stomping cheer was heartfelt and universal. The rest of the evening was dedicated to drinking me under the table; passing around bits of bone and scale I had recovered from the dragon's skeleton; and forcing me over and over to retell the story of the battle with the dragon. At last as the sky started to lighten, Lydia dragged me home.

I woke on the floor of my bedroom naked beneath a blanket. My mouth tasted of rancid beer and mead. Iron spikes were doing their best to work their way out of my head through my eye sockets. The pounding on the door below transferred to my head as a distant vibrating pain. I stood up and shifted my blanket into a robe in the Imperial fashion. I noticed that Lydia's armor and mine were in a pile together in a corner. Lydia herself was sleeping face down on my bed in her underwear. Her briefs arced tightly across her generous backside to disappear between two long muscular legs.

The pounding on the door brought me back to reality. I draped the end of my makeshift toga over my shoulder, "Coming!" I bellowed.

It turned out to be Farkas "Get dressed. Skjor wants to see you."

A bit later I walked out to the exercise yard where Skjor was observing the morning sparring matches. "You need me for something Skjor?" I asked.

The one-eyed soldier nodded. "A scholar came by and informed us that a fragment of Wuuthrad may be hidden in Dustman's Cairn. Ordinarily, only a senior Companion would be sent on such an important mission, but I think it would be a suitable test for your Trial. Farkas will be your shield-brother and accompany you."

All kinds of bullshit sensors went off in the back of my hungover mind. "Just minute," I said, "What is this Wuuthrad and who exactly was this scholar?"

"Wuuthrad is the axe of Ysgramor, the Harbinger of Us All. Our order underwent some strife millennia ago and the war axe was shattered. The pieces were scattered as a result of the fighting. As for the scholar, he wouldn't give me his name. He seemed another fool to me, but on the off chance a piece of Wuuthrad is there, honor demands we retrieve it." Skjor pointed on a large map to the location of this Dustman's Cairn. It was a long way from anywhere.

"So you didn't ask this 'scholar' how he came by this tidbit or why he was sharing it with us? You just took a stranger at his word that this piece of an ancient weapon is there inside a crypt in the middle of nowhere?" I turned to Farkas, "You and I are walking into a trap."

"And I'm there to watch you fight your way through it," Farkas replied.

"What?"

"If you're brave and strong, I will tell the other Companions and recommend you for full membership," Farkas elaborated.

"And if you return with a piece of Wuuthrad, so much the better," Skjor added.

"Are Farkas and I to do this alone?"

"We are doing this to measure your worth Ieago, not that of your pretty new housecarl," Skjor said flatly while I blushed.

A laundry list of things I would need for the days-long hike to the cairn started developing while I looked at Skjor's map. "Well let's do this then. I gotta go pack for the road," I said while turning back to the hall.

"You'll need to wear something more than a bed sheet!" Skjor shot at my departing back.

* * *

**I guess Ieago's exile is going pretty well. He seems to have found a country willing to fling hot babes and jobs at him just for being a nice guy. As always, I hope you are enjoying this and I welcome any constructive feedback.**


	8. Two Ways to Fight

**Again, Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

My first reacton to Dustman's Cairn was of dissapointment. Where Bleak Falls had been a large complex, the carin apperead at first to be a small rectangular room lined with stone coffins facing a modest altar.

"Someone's been here recently. Be on your guard" Farkas remarked while looking at a few shovels leaning on a wall.

"What are we looking for..." I began, but saw Farkas shift a stack of earthenware jars from in front of an open coffin, revealing it to be a passage into a larger tunel beyond. True to Farkas's obervation, burning torches rested in wall sconces or on the floor to provide some illumination in the winding passages beyond the coffin.

"Are all the old burial sites protected like this?" I asked.

"Only the oldest and most important ones. Now show me what you can do, and be careful. I don't want to carry you back to Jorrvaskr on my back."

I stalked forward into the semi-darkness, doing my best to stay away from the meager light of the torches and keeping my saber in hand but not lit. My choice paid off in the first few yards when a few preserved draugr stepped down from their alcoves and began to search for Farkas and I. I growled in frustration when Farkas charged the undead, revealing our locations before I was ready to strike.

"I thought you were here to see how I fight?" I asked, more than a little put out that I hadn't got a chance to take down the draugr.

"Were you actually going to fight?" Farkas asked, taking a tone that sounded so like Vilkas' skeptical condescension.

I sighed at the misunderstanding, "Whenever I can, I like the fights to begin when I choose. That won't always be at first sight."

"That sounds kind of cowardly," Farkas commented. It was an argument I was accustomed to. Too many of Kavatch's guards and my knight-brothers had felt the same.

"Look at it this way Farkas: The next time we're in a hall filled with enemies, we could be standing next to each other, getting in each other's way. Or we could be at opposite ends of the hall, working both ends against the middle." Farkas only looked half placated.

"If you say so Ieago, but I prefer a strait-up fight and so do most of the Compnions."

"I can stand my ground as well as any other fighter Farkas. But just because I _can_ stand my ground doesn't mean I _should_. Just let me call the fight next time. Please?"

"If you say so Ieago, but I won't let you get us killed," Farkas said, still sounding uncomfortable with my methods.

I guess in a sense, I did start the next fight, but Farkas sure finished it.

Dustman's Cairn was an ambush as we had thought it would be. I had gotten myself locked in to a small embalming chamber behind a portcullis when the trap was sprung. Farkas had come over to tease me when half a dozen heavily armed people surrounded him.

"Killing you will make an excellent tale," their leader mocked Farkas.

"Too bad none of you will be around to hear it," Farkas replied.

I had seen and done quite a lot in the past few weeks, but nothing had yet compare to seeing my shield-brother transform into a giant wolf and proceed to tear apart six warriors in a few seconds. The beast Farkas had become lurched out at the nearest man, grabbing his wrist and locking it in place. Farkas' free hand slashed through the armor around the man's elbow like a blacksmith's shears through tin. The main wailed in agony and dropped to his knees, clutching the bloody stump. The werewolf's claws slashed in an uppercut deep into neck of a second man. His helmet flew off with a spray of blood and torn skin. He was dead before he hit the ground. A lithe Redguard woman tried to stab at Farkas, but he dove beneath the thrust in a blur of greasy black fur. I heard bones crunch beneath armor as his 600-pound frame tackeld her. They slammed to the ground where he rolled away from the furious counterattack of the three surviving warriors.

Farkas moved around the survivors in a circle, foring them into the center of the room where they had no choice but to stand back to back. Farkas charged in as fast as a thought. The youngest of the three, wearing old furs for armor, howeld in pain when the lightning fast claws opened his stomach. Farkas returned to his rapid circiling. The remaining men were Skjor's age, experienced men in banded iron and holding long two-handed swords. Farkas leapt high, driving between their backs. His claws gripped their heads in his flight and brought the men with him to the ground. A last swipe of claws tore one man's throat from mouth to collar. Sharp teeth sank slowly into the last man's neck.

The black-eyed animal looked at me for a few seconds and dissapeared into the passages out of my sight. I was still shocked when he came back into view in human form a few seconds later. Further on he had discovered the lever to raise the portcullis that had trapped me.

"I hope I didn't scare you," he said, using a borrowed sword to finish off the young man still clutching his severed arm.

"What . . . the fuck . . . was that?" I asked.

"It's a secret known only to a few. It's not something you reveal to newcomers."

"So are all the Companions werewolves?"

"No just the Circle."

"Are you going to make me a werewolf? Who are these people?"

"These people were the Silver Hand. They're bad people who don't like werewolves, so they hate us. Whether or not you become a werewolf remains to be seen. Now let's go. Eyes on the prey, not the horizon."

Filling my pack with their silvered weapons and money, the two of us left the dead hunters behind and moved deeper into the ruin. The werewolf hunters had abandoned their torches in favor of lighting the large braziers that were scattered at intervals in the catacombs. The result being areas that were well-lit separated by deep shadows.

Treading softly, I found one such setting near a large door where I chose to show Farkas my way of attack. Two thugs, one man and one woman, were leaning on either side of the large double door leading deeper into the tomb. A waist-high brazier illuminated the area from its alcove, throwing a deep shadow into a reliquary on the opposite side. It was in that shadow that I made my way next to the woman, being careful to stay low and hug the wall as I came close to her. The lavender blade leapt out of its hilt at neck-height, burning the woman's flesh and cutting as I brought the blade away from the wall. Her partner shouted his surprise and drew is claymore while moving away from his post. The first collision of our blades threw sparks as he blocked my first cut. He was a skilled man, almost to the level of Vilkas or Farkas; but failed to use the full mass of his silvered claymore to beat my weightless blade aside.

I sensed I was about to beat him when Farkas came in from the side, using his own two-hander in an uppercut that impaled the werewolf hunter and lifted him off his feet.

"You see? The fight goes better and ends sooner when you choose when to start it," I said while Farkas kicked his sword free of the corpse.

"You've made your point, but it still feels under-handed," Farkas replied.

I thought for a second on how to make myself more clear, "When you're hungry, you don't let the deer see you," I tried.

The area beyond the door presented a challenge for Farkas. Over the millenia, a stream had subsided and now ran through a deep gully of its own creation lit dimly from high above. With the light and water animal life had crept in to add varety to the threats within Dustman's Carin. I had rushed ahead when I saw a draugr with a bow drawing a bead on me. The undead woman and I fought for a moment by the passage deeper into the carin before I cut her apart.

I was looking back for Farkas when I heard him shout, "Ieago! Help!" from around the bend in the stream. Farkas had been driven back by a pair of Skyrim's giant spiders. They were not terribly tough animals, but horrifying to look on. Farkas's ordinarily powerful and deft swordplay was replaced with a clumsy, overpowered technique better siuted to splitting wood or driving nails.

"Hold on!" I shouted, rushing close to one of the waist-high, venom-spitting arachnids. I reached far out over its four-foot legs and stabbed down into its body again and again. As it died, its legs curled beneath it. Farkas got lucky with one of his panicked, artless chops and clove the head of the other spider.

"Talos of fucking Atmora! I hate those things!" Farkas swore, all the more vicously for his usually soft-spoken manner.

"You alright?" I asked. I shared his hatred of anything with more than four legs.

"I'm fine, but the creepie-crawlies, they just get to me," he explained.

Further on we found the Silver Hand having problems of their own. In laying their ambush, they had roused some of the draugr that kept guard in the crypt. Before long we found ourselves in a three-way battle that continued deep into the catacombs.

My tactics once again bore themselves out in front of Farkas. Often I would hold back, letting the dragur and the werewolf hunters tear themselves apart before sneaking in to finish what was left.

There were at least 20 sarcophagi lining the walls, arrayed on steps leading up to the word wall in the penultimate chamber. A table rested in the confines of that imposing wall. It bore a piece of a beautifully decorated axe.

"What are these curved walls?" I asked Farkas. "This is the second one I've seen since coming to Skyrim."

"I couldn't tell you Ieago. Vilkas says they're warnings and memoirals made by the old people. He probably has a book on them you could read."

"Before or after he stops calling me 'whelp'?" I asked wryly.

Farkas sighed, "He doesn't actually hate you Ieago. But the Companions are the only family he and I have ever known. We've seen a lot of our family members die, so he's very careful about who he lets in."

"I hadn't thought about that," I admitted, looking more closely at the interior of the wall where that strange text was glowing harshly. "Why do some of the letters on the walls glow?"

Farkas looked confused, "What are you talking about? They're just scratches in an old language nobody can read anymore. They don't glow."

I pointed, "This one does, the word '_yol_' it means 'fire'."

"Ieago, how do you know. . .Ieago?"

"_We came from the North. We keepers of the fire, to drive the cold snow-elves away. We slaghtered many and cast them face down before the ruin of fair Sarthall by the bay_," I finished translating.

"How can you possibly know that?" Farkas asked in awe while I reached for the piece of Wuuthrad resting on the table before the word wall.

As one the sarcauphagi burst open and long-dead warriors stepped out, drew their weapons, and charged. "_Fus_!" I shouted. The shockwave disrupted their charge and I leapt into the crowd, trusting Farkas to keep my back clear. I thrust, hacked, and parried; the violet blade flashing in and out of decayed flesh or blocking ancient steel. I cleared my foes to find Farkas having trouble with his. He was a fraction of a second behind in his contest with five of the undead. The draugr in front of him were propelled by the anima of fierce and capable fighters. For a few seconds, they did well against the two of us. But speed and technique were on our side. The last of those restless dragur fell apart as Farkas landed a succession of shattering blows to its skull. The fragment was ours, our enemy was revealed, our packs bulged with plunder, and Dustman's Cairn was silent again.

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**Thanks for reading. It's to my lingering embarrassment that I've gotten this far spelling "draugr" wrong. I'll be cleaning that up before I post more. As always, thanks for reading and I welcome your reviews.**


	9. The Daily Grind

**Skyrim this the property of Bethesda Softworks. Kudos to Manatee for offering my first review! To those of you who've decided to follow Ieago's adventures, I am thrilled to have captured your attention.**

* * *

The confirmation ceremony when we returned was an understated affair in the middle of the night. I stood in the torchlight surrounded by the Harbinger and the Circle. Every available Companion was watching from the shadows surrounding the ancient mead hall.

Kodlak began the ceremony, "Brothers and sisters of the Circle, tonight we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This man has endured, challenged, and shown valor. Who will speak for him?"

Farkas took up his part, "I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us."

"Would you raise your shield in his defense?" Kodlak asked him.

"I would stand at is back, that the world might never overtake us."

"And would you raise your sword in his honor?"

"It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes."

"And would you raise a mug in his name?"

"I would lead the song of Ieago's triumph as our mead hall reveled in his stories."

My eyes were wet for pride.

"Then the judgment of this Circle is complete. Ieago's heart beats with the fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours that the mountains may echo and or enemies may tremble at our call." Kodlak decreed.

"It shall be so," the four others said in unison.

Pride burned warmly in my chest in the wake of the small, heartfelt ceremony. The brothers and Skjor congratulated me in turn as they headed in for the night. As Aela came up she said, "I hear you are stronger than you look. Perhaps we can hunt together someday." I smiled after her like a smitten puppy and then turned my attention to Kodlak. He had turned to watch the sky over the north-facing battlements. The aurorae were out that night, flawless green and blue ribbons above the thin clouds.

"Go up to Eorlund Grey-Mane in the morning to have a real blade forged for yourself instead of . . . whatever that is," Kodlak said as I leaned on the wall next to him.

"So some of the Companions are werewolves?" I asked.

The old man sighed, "I see you have learned some secrets before the appointed time. The problem of the Beast Blood is one I have spent my twilight years pondering. It seemed a good idea when I was young, but now my thoughts turn to Sovngarde. I worry that Shor will not welcome one with tainted blood."

"You seek to cure yourself then?"

"It is no matter for tonight. Go now and take your rest. There is much upon your mind already."

There was some truth to the old man's words.

* * *

A storm was brewing against the slope of the high mountain far to the west. At night the occasional flash of lightning within the thunder head could be seen. My friends told me the peak's name was the Throat of the World. Ages ago the first of the Greybeards built the fortress-monastery High Hrothgar up there to study the Way of the Voice they informed me. Local legends held that a great storm on the mountain presages the Greybeards getting ready to speak. Such was the method they used to summon the young Talos of Atmora, before he became Tiber Septim. For my part, I just knew it was going to be one hell of a storm once it at last cleared the peak.

I spent the month productively. The proceeds from my trial in Dustman's Cairn were enough to clear my debt with Belethor. With the help of Farengar and Eorlund, I was able to construct a new "magicka saber" as Farengar called it. I was more pleased with the emerald green of this new blade. Eorlund's black-and-white hilt was a work of elegant and simple angles. I named it 'Revenant' since I had discovered its prototype among the undead.

I got on well with most of my peers among the companions. My stories of undermining the Thalmor's activities in Cyrodiil made me popular. I had a few critics however.

Vilkas was not the personality conflict I feared he would be. As the Companions' Master-at-Arms he oversaw our training with an eager diligent professionalism. He came down hard on all the newbloods and especially hard on me.

It was after an especially bruising sparring match that I brough the issue up with his brother. "He has it in for me Farkas, I swear," I complained from behind my beer.

Farkas just chuckled, "He just knows you're good that's all."

"So he works harder to beat me?"

"No. To make sure you keep getting better. 'Fact is Ieago, you're the best duelist to ever walk off the street and into our hall. Nobody's ever gotten a hit off Vilkas during their evaluation. Ever."

"No shit?" I asked with disbelief.

Farkas gestured to some of the other new bloods in the hall. "Most whelps come in not knowing a war axe from a hatchet. Me, my brother, Skjor, Aela; we hold back allot when they first start. We don't want them crippled or quitting. But you. You come in with ten years or more of experience under your belt. Vilkas, the rest of us, we know you can handle it so we come down harder. So stop being a milk-drinker."

I leaned back in my chair and stared down into my tankard for a minute to digest how right Farkas was. I grinned over at him. "You're right Farkas. I am good. Bring it on," we clacked our mugs together and drank to the notion.

Vilkas "brought it on" the very next morning: he beat me soundly in front of the other newbloods who were waiting for their turns to spar with him. The defeat was not so bitter after last night's talk with his brother.

"Good fight," I said as I walked over to pick up the wooden dowel I used as a stand-in for my magicka saber. Eorlund had looked once at the magical sword's effects on metal and forbidden its use on his work. With repeated or prolonged contact the hot blade could begin to melt metal, even if it could not cut through the way it could slice flesh and cloth.

Vilkas was about to reply when my harshest critic spoke up. "Why did we even let you in in the first place?" Njada Stonearm wondered aloud. The whole yard instantly went quiet. We all knew the sound of a gauntlet being thrown.

I barely held on to my shaking anger, gripping my practice saber tight enough to whiten skin. "I stand ready to meet you, Mistress Stonearm. At any time and with any weapon you might choose," I bit out through clenched teeth.

"A challenge!" Vilkas roared before Njada could escalate the issue even further. "Ieago challenges Njada! Bare fists and immediately!" Inside a few minutes the other new bloods scuffed out a large square in the packed dirt of the yard. One of the Circle stood at each corner to judge the fight. Kodlak presided over all from his chair beneath Jorrvaskr's awning, the only Companion to be seated. When all was ready, Njada and I stood facing each other inside the square.

"First to three points wins. Only hits to the body and head count. Automatic loss if both shoulders and back touch the ground, the fight goes on as long as it has to," Vilkas called out the rules.

Njada and I set ourselves in fighting stances and looked to Kodlak, that first among equals. "Fight!" He barked.

Njada rushed me, her arm raised for a haymaker that would have sent my face one way and blasted my teeth another. It would have worked if she had not telegraphed the punch from a mile out. I sidestepped; grabbed my right wrist; and shoved my elbow into her abdomen, just below her ribs. She folded over my arm like a butler's cloth. I withdrew my arm and spun clockwise to bring my elbow down on her back. There was no one there when I struck.

My back arched with the impact of her fist on the base of my spine. I only just avoided defeat by rolling away after she swept my feet from beneath me. I continued my roll out from beneath her following stomp and came up at the edge of the square.

I waded back in. Njada and I traded several seconds of ineffectual blows. She shifted her tactics, blocking my punches and kicks, and trying to grab at me. My wiry and necessarily flexible frame, so often a liability when trading blows was a saving grace in this sort of fighting. While Njada was certainly strong and had a small reach advantage on me, I lacked much for her to get a good grip on.

As the seconds ticked by she grabbed my wrist and held on. I clapped my free hand down on hers, dropped into a low stance, and pulled hard. Her balance lurched far out ahead of her feet. Releasing her suddenly loose hand, I wrapped both of my own around her shoulder, pulled her whole arm close to my chest, lifted, and rolled her whole body backwards. I knelt and Njada came down with me to her back, her arm rested limply against my shoulder. It took a gentle push to settle her shoulders on the ground.

"Break!" Skjor shouted. I let Njada up. Skjor turned his good eye to Njada. "You were beaten, Njada. So what did you learn?"

"That a person who is defeated is not necessarily weak," she said sullenly.

Skjor's gaze turned on me. I felt like a deer caught in the arrow's path.

"And you nearly lost the fight whelp. What did you learn from this?" He demanded of me.

I thought hard, feeling Njada's scowl on me the whole time. "I could have avoided this altogether," I admitted at last. "Njada didn't think much of me before the fight and she still doesn't now that it's over. None of you think better of me for this victory. I gained nothing from fighting Njada."

"Good lad," Kodlak said from his seat. "And that's why we don't fight among ourselves. There's nothing to gain from it and everything to loose." The morning diversion broke up as the Old Man returned to his office.

* * *

Lydia and I became fast friends as our home came together. At first I thought it inappropriate that a servant and a master should be so close. I thought seriously about releasing her from my service. I will not have my friends owing me anything.

I brought this up with a few of my friends among the Companions. "Don't do it Ieago," Alea warned me. "It would not matter why you released her, it would be a very public shaming."

Vignar Gray-Mane, one of the older members gave me a lighter insight, "It's not uncommon for a Thane to become friends with his housecarl. Or even for the two to fall for each other. There is not the slightest social taboo against it up here."

The Axe of Whiterun hung on a plaque above the door and my Skyforge Steel claymore on a plaque in the loft in front of my bedroom door. The ancient blades I took from the Draugr were crossed above my bed. I preferred my magicka saber and simply endured the good-natured derision of the Companions.

If my tendency toward stealth made some of the Companions wary, my choice to use magic made most of them worried. Stealth was at least understood in their warrior's code: hunters who wished to put meat on the table were not seen by their prey. And battles were best begun when you chose, not your enemy.

Magic on the other hand was seen as weak and little better than cheating. Undaunted, I exploited my favored position at Dragonsreach to 'borrow' a few of Farengar's spell books that I thought would be useful and spent hours every day studying them. Then I would spend time in the practice yard applying them.

It didn't go well at first. My first attempt at a skin-hardening spell called Stoneflesh was tested by having some of the other newbloods take free swings at me. After a few seconds they had me crumpled on the ground, watching me use a healing spell to control the bruising that had spread from my groin to my collar.

In a similar vein, I stepped into the ring with Lydia to try out a warding spell that projected an ethereal shield in front of my hand. Lydia smashed into it with her own shield, sending the steel-hard ridge of the spell into my face, breaking both the spell and my nose.

These were 'learning experiences' I told my friends. And in truth the spells' use hurt slightly less than not using them. As the days wore by, they became more effective and I tried a few more advanced spells. The one that earned the Companion's widespread tolerance was Healing Hands and saved many superficial wounds from becoming serious every week.

It was a sensory-enhancement called 'Detect Life' that convinced me to slow down my studies. I cast the spell in the quiet of the Newbloods' room and almost lost consciousness as every living thing started to press relentlessly on my mind. Mold growing on bread left out; the thin lines of worms burrowing outside the basement walls; moths darting around a lantern; the bright flames of my Companions around me; the hotter blazes of the Circle and Kodlak. All of that I might have been able to handle, but nothing compared to the overwhelming, consuming tremor of the Skyforge. Its presence in the magical field that permeates our existence was unmistakable. The ancient forge was very powerful and very much alive. All this in the few seconds before my manna reserves ran dry. My face felt sticky and I wiped it away, my hand coming up red with blood from the clots in my nose.

The month wore on and the storm brewing over the mountain grew taller and spread slowly over the surrounding tundra. I took jobs and trained.

One rainy night I woke to Farkas shaking my shoulder. He led me around Jorrvaskr, pointed me toward Skjor and walked away without a word. Skjor beckoned me forward to the granite wall at the base of the Skyforge. A hidden door opened to admit the two of us into the dim light of a small chamber.

"I'm sure you would recognize Aela even in her beast form," Skjor said into the silence. From the deep shadows stepped a being that at first I found terrifying. Massive and muscular, it stooped over a small basin in the middle of the chamber. "Aela has agreed to be your forbearer."

"Why all this secrecy?" I asked.

Both of my seniors frowned deeply. "Some would squander this gift we've been given. They say it's a curse. How can something that grants this kind of prowess be a curse?" Skjor demanded. "And so we conduct this ceremony away from prying eyes."

"And if I don't wish to become a werewolf?"

"Then you may leave here with no ill-will from either of us. Though you will not be able to become a member of the Circle," he said evenly.

I had been thinking on lycanthropy for the last month, ever since coming out of Dustman's Cairn. Farkas' display at Dustman's Carin had been on my mind every night when I drifted off to sleep. I had spent the long walks to my various jobs in the hold thinking on how I could use that power in my new life; or perhaps more quickly reclaim my old one. The opportunity to possess the strength and agility of a wolf; the enhanced senses; to live a life free of disease, I thought nothing of the consequences that I was about to accept in trade. "I will do it."

"Welcome to the Circle, brother. Tonight you are born into the Pack!"

With that, Skjor took a knife to Aela's wrist. Cutting hard, a stream of blood flowed into the basin. I stepped up, gazing into the black liquid. I cupped my hand in the blackness, drawing it to my mouth. The smell and the taste of the salt and iron sent flames through my body! All I wanted was more! And then the pain hit. I never thought I could experience such pain. I tasted blood anew as I screamed and screamed. I blacked out briefly; awakening to the sight of claws and the smell of dog hair in the rain.

The beast I was tore through its way through the streets of Whiterun, bursting through the doors of Dragonsreach. Townsfolk and militia fled in terror at the growling. Behind the throne room was a grand concourse open to the north. The guards rallied around their Jarl and his housecarl. So puny. So pathetic. The terror of the beast's howl drove them all back. It turned, leaping the wall of the fortress. All went black again.

* * *

**We all have our very own first rampage. On mine I rushed up to the palace and caught the Jarl having supper. Good times. Thank you as always for reading! I hope to hear your thoughts on how I can improve this story.**


	10. Welcome to the Pack!

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

I came around some hours later in the middle of a forest. I was shivering naked in the cold. I could smell a female nearby.

"Are you awake? We were beginning to worry that you wouldn't come back. You gave us even more trouble than Farkas did at his first turning," Aela said.

I coughed up dog hair from the back of a dry throat, "What just happened?"

"Yours was not an easy transformation, but you're still alive. So congratulations. You'll need to rest a while before you can turn again. I almost envy you, you know. The first time is always the most... intense."

"Where are we?" I had no memory of how I had traveled so far. Autumn was almost over in Whiterun and winter apparently had come early to the foothills where Aela and I now spoke. The memories of my rampage through Whiterun were still disconnected images swimming though my brain.

"This is a gift we've arranged for you. We've tracked a group of the Silver Hand to that fort up there. Skjor's gone ahead to scout it out. Oh, here are a few things you might want." With that, she tossed me a large sack containing my armor and Revenant.

Dressed again, Aela and I approached the crumbling wall of the hillside castle in a low crouch. Two sentries were wandering near the broken arch of the gate and one was cat-napping near the door to the keep itself. My new senses picked up every little detail: the soft crunch of booted feet in the old snow, the different smells of the sweat of the Orc and two Nords guarding their hideout.

I signed to Aela, commanding her to stay in the trees a few yards from the arch. Creeping up to that opening in the eroded stonework, I grabbed a loose stone and threw it into the woods near Aela. The two men who had been moving around came out slowly with swords drawn. They kept in single file as they slowly advanced on Aela, not aware of her drawn bow. The sleeper, awake now, stepped out from under the arch. His own bow was drawn to cover his colleagues. I stood up behind him and clasped my hand on his mouth as Revenant ignited and slid deeply across his throat. His distant friends heard the snap-hiss of the magicka saber and could not miss the green light it produced. I made a mental note to use a conventional dagger for this in the future. The men ran at me, swords high. One fell forward with an arrow in his back. I rushed the remaining man, killing him with a deft stab through his chest.

The antechamber of the keep was empty, the passage beyond blocked by iron bars, "Cowards, they must have sealed the place up when Skjor broke in. You can taste the fear," Aela muttered.

I sensed the same fear but kept my misgivings private. My instincts told me that something was very wrong.

Aela and I hunted together with an efficiency I find startling as I look back. Hall after hall, room after room; our moves complemented one another perfectly. Our hyperaware senses of hearing and smell telling us everything we needed to know of the enemy's position and number. My sight told me of the Silver Hand's cruelty. These people captured suspected werewolves and brought them to the castle's dungeons. There the Silver Hand locked their victims in; tortured them until they were desperate enough to shape shift. And more often than not, the people they had captured were _not_ werewolves.

"At some point, you lose track of your humanity," Aela explained, our gaze on a dead lycanthrope stuck to a cell wall by a meat hook. "You can't separate yourself from the beast within. These poor sods could have been anyone. Nobody we know by the smell."

"Talos save us Aela. What a horrible way to go."

"The ringleader of this lot is called Krev the Skinner. I don't think I need to tell you why." Indeed, I had seen several tanning racks and dozens of wolf pelts since we had entered the old fort. My feeling of unease lingered unabated by the success Aela and I had met with so far.

We finally met this Krev in the bottommost cellar. He and three henchmen were busy scraping yet more hides. We crept in. An arrow was nocked, a blade was in hand, but not lit. One hunter remained in the shadows of the columns by the door. The other crept further to the right. His steps were silent enough to be drowned out by the rhythmic scraping of iron on skin. Krev was wearing the older style plate armor that most heavy armor users love but can't afford. The hunter was close enough to hear Krev breathing. The hunter's breath was still. The hunter brought the hilt of his saber up to the prey's neck.

"This must be fast," It thought. It pressed the activation stud. The green blade leapt to life once more, burning a hole through Krev's neck. The hunter I was pushed hard, forcing the blade out beneath Krev's chin.

I was turning for new prey even as Krev fell to the floor. There was the buzz of an arrow shaft passing within a hand's span of my head. The Bosmer werewolf hunter at the rear of the room flew back from the impact of Aela's dart, dead before he hit the cured pelt he was scraping. The survivors were panicked amateurs. The mop-up did not take long.

Aela and I met in the center of the room. I didn't have the courage to look her in the eyes.

"Skjor!" she cried, running up to the dead man's side. "You were a match of any of those cowards! Why did you insist on going without a shield brother?"

"I know how much you cared for each other Aela. I'm so sorry." I felt helpless to ease her grief, but what else can you say when a friend is confronted with this?

"Get out of here," she said, her voice beginning to crack. "Go tell the others what's happened. I'm going to stay here and learn what I can. The Silver Hand will learn to fear our names."

"If you need anything from me Aela, you have only to ask." She nodded her understanding and I turned to leave. I had just shut the door behind me when her first wailing scream filled the keep. Every fiber of my being wanted to turn around. I wanted to run and take her in my arms and hold her tight against her rage and loss. I hardened my heart and continued on instead. A Companion does not look on a shield-sibling while their grief is raw. And Kodlak needed to know of this.

I was surprised by my own sorrow for Skjor's passing. He and I had not known each other long and I did not feel I had bonded with him closely. Yet I was sure that my life was the less for his absence. His tolerance of my unconventional tactics had been admirable. His willingness to appraise me honestly was even more so. I felt that in time that he would have become the next Kodlak and before that a great teacher for me and others. I felt not only for the hole his death had cut in Aela's heart, but for the friendship that I would never forge with the man.

The news of Skjor's death cast a pall on the atmosphere in Jorrvaskr. Kodlak said he needed time alone and bade me go and grieve in my own way.

I stepped out the practice yard to view the persistent storm in the east. It was huge now. The rain and thunder came down the sides of the Throat of the World in waves. Among the strokes of thunder I heard clearly the words of the Greybeards. "_Dov-ah-kiin_!" The distant monks shouted as one. The earth shook and so did my heart. I _knew_ I was the one being summoned.

* * *

**A brief chapter but an important one. I hope you enjoyed it. As always, I welcome your feedback.**


	11. To the Peak

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

Lydia found me packing a few hours later and began packing her own things for the trip. I had gotten my leave from Jarl Balgruuf to depart. I don't think he would have been prouder if he had been the one being called to High Hrothgar.

"You owe me nothing, Lydia," I told her. "This journey will be dangerous and long."

"All the more reason to come with you Ieago," she replied. "Wherever you go, I will always be ready to go."

Clearing a spot on the dining room table, I traced out the roads to Ivarstead on a map. Ivarstead was a tiny logging village that had grown at the base of the trail up the Throat of the World.

"Then I'm glad to have you Lydia. Have you ever been out that way before?"

"When I was with the town militia, I was given patrols out as far as Valtheim Towers. That's roughly the border between Whiterun Hold and the Rift."

"Brigandry?"

"Constantly. You couldn't clean out the tower without having a new group of thugs show up a week later. Bandits will stop travelers at the natural chokepoint there and extract a 'toll'."

"It's the same scam back home," I raised my saber hilt to inspect the emerald concealed in the end of it. "And we'll deal with it the exact same way."

* * *

The bandits at Valtheim tried to waylay us just as we predicted they would. We offered them a chance to walk away and they forced the issue just like every group of bandits always does.

Lydia and I met three of them at the foot of the tower. A bridge far above us spanned the swift-running White River to the tower set in the bluffs of the other side.

"You see, this is a toll road," One of the scraggly, hungry-looking bandits was explaining to us. "The toll is... call it 100 in gold. And maybe some time with the lass," the spokesman said, letting an eye wander over my housecarl.

I crossed my arms and stamped down my rising anxiety. Despite my confidence and training, I hate dealing with bullies.

"Counter offer: You walk away, right now, and 'the lass' and I don't kill the shit out of you," I replied.

The three men drew closer to us, axes drawn. One of them stood facing Lydia with a more serious look on his face. "People don't get to dismiss us like that," the leader said again.

I looked over to my man-at-arms, "Lydia, off that jester."

Her shield slammed into his chest, a quick jab to give her time to draw her sword. Its bright steel flashed up, tearing into the skin and bone of her opponent's face. Her stroke pulled most of the skin along with the sword as the arc of her cut brought the blade high. The tip dropped to her shoulder and drove deep into the neck of the ruined man, just above the collar of the cheap iron breastplate he was wearing. Her steel-shod foot kicked her sword free.

Neither myself or my blade were yet famous outside of the city of Whiterun; or else these vagabonds might have been more cautious. As it was, I lit Revenant. The bright green glow of the blade giving it the impression of being broader than it truly was. I let the hair-thin blade slide through the rings of my foe's chain mail. His body went limp and I switched the blade off while stepping around him.

"No more! I yield!" The third bandit cried. He had dropped his axe and crouched before us.

"What should we do with him Thane?" Lydia asked.

"Let him be," I commanded. I looked down and addressed the cowering man, "You're very lucky today. I suggest you take your friends' things, sell them off, and find a safer line of work."

We continued on under the noisome sky. The steady rain began a few hours before sunset and became heavy by the time we found a ruin to shelter in. We built a fire inside the awning before the mass grave's door. I was uncomfortable there, listening to Lydia tell me some of their history-a history of priests and dragons and rebellion.

Many like Labyrinthian and Bleak Falls Barrow started out as ordinary cities, but had their subterranean networks expanded. Others like Dustman's Cairn and our present shelter had been built expressly as necropoli. Millennia of looters have tried and in many places been successful in plundering these crypts. The draugr however, persisted. Days or weeks after you hack one apart; it will slowly reanimate and reassemble. Others not dedicated to defense clean and repair their dark environment. Deep in the halls, hidden forges temper ancient arms. If necessary, raids on the outside world are made.

These barrows are hornets' nests of evil. Only in great need would I pass the doors of one again. Or so I told myself. I heard Lydia yawning nearby. I decided to take her watches for the rest of the night. For the past several nights a restful sleep had eluded me.

* * *

The rest of the way to Ivarstead was an uneventful trip. The roads through the temperate forests and swift streams that made up the western Rift were well maintained and relatively free from violence. The soldiers of Riften, though shamelessly corrupt, kept the areas near their assigned settlements safe from the thugs that populate most of the abandoned fortresses in the hold.

Further to the south, the Stormcloak army and the Legion battled for supremacy in an intractable stalemate along the major trade road. Wherever the Stormcloaks sought to raid the numerous caravans that carry goods between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, a detachment of the Legion was somewhere nearby to disrupt them. The result was a skirmish in the woods that killed a few more people and furthered neither side's aims.

Deciding to wait for first light to begin our trek up to High Hrothgar, we spent the afternoon and evening in Ivarstead asking some of the locals about the nature of the path we were about to use. A gentleman named Klimmek was particularly helpful. He had spent most of his adult life taking supplies to the summit every few weeks.

Most important was a clarification: Lydia and I had been told of the 7000 steps up to High Hrothgar as if the journey was as simple as that. The truth is that there are in fact 7000 carved steps along the trail-separated into several flights divided by miles of unimproved path populated by wolves, ice-wraiths, and trolls. We were not to be alone however. Klimmek let it be known that a handful of other pilgrims were on the trail to meditate on the nine shrines that dotted the path. His price for this wealth of information was that we would deliver this week's supplies to High Hrothgar for him. By his own admission he was not a young man.

Reaching High Hrothgar was a three-day journey through blinding wind-driven ice. Only in the last hours of our trek did Lydia and I break though the cloud layer and behold the sweeping vistas of Skyrim all around us. Pausing for a moment in the bright watery sun, Lydia pointed out to me the landmarks of her homeland: the mound of Whiterun back to the west, several ancient Nordic ruins all around, and the capital city Solitude to the northeast. Still hidden by the shoulder of the mountain, she promised me that Windhelm, the city of Ysgramor and seat of the Stormcloak rebellion would be in sight soon enough. There was a quiet up here above the storm that I found remarkable. The troubles of the world did not reach up this far, and I doubted that they had for thousands of years.

At last we reached the imposing fortress of High Hrothgar. The citadel was built across the path, blocking travel further up the mountain. The stones were cut in a style similar to those I had seen at Dragonsreach, but lacked the numerous decorative carvings and woodwork of that larger bastion thousands of feet below and visible miles to the west.

Mounting the last few steps, we pushed open the doors and entered. After the bright sunlight of the world above the clouds, the interior of the fortress with its silted stained-glass windows was black. In the dim light, I could make out four figures in robes. Gathering my courage I came forward and to be met by one of them.

"So a dragonborn appears. At this moment in the turning of the age," the old, upright man said.

"I heard your summons out on the plain to the west. You call me dragonborn. What does this mean?" I asked.

"First we will see if you truly have the gift," the robed man said. "Let us taste of your voice."

"Umm... Are you sure?"

"Do not worry. There is no way you could harm us. Use your shout on me, so I might know if you truly are the Dragonborn."

"_Fus_!" I shouted, putting my soul into the shout. All the previous people who had wound up at the receiving end of that Shout had been staggered backwards. Even tough Farkas had the wind knocked from him. The old man in the robe barely blinked.

He smiled beneath his magnificent grey beard, "You truly have been given the gift of Akatosh. I am Arngeir. I bid you welcome to High Hrothgar. We have not welcomed one such as you in centuries."

I bowed in return. "Thank you for your welcome Arngeir. I am called Ieago and with me is my housecarl Lydia. Now that we are here tell me: what does it mean to be called dragonborn?"

"To be dragonborn is to be a mortal with the soul of a dragon. Whether or not this is a gift or a curse has always been a matter for debate. But come now Dragonborn, allow us to teach you somewhat of the Way of the Voice."

"What is the Way of the Voice?" Lydia asked.

"After his bitter defeat at the Battle of Red Mountain, our founder Jurgen Windcaller mediated for seven years on why he had failed. At length he came to the conclusion that he had grown proud in his power and misused the Voice. He took a vow of pasificism, promising only to use the voice for the glory of the Gods. We have held to his teachings for many generations," Arngeir explained.

"Why do the others not speak?" she asked.

"They have grown powerful in their studies of the Voice. To be spoken to by my brothers would shatter your body."

"There are only four of you?" I asked. High Hrothgar was deathly silent.

"Five," Arngeir replied as we stepped out into a large courtyard behind the citadel. "Our master Paarthurnax lives in solitude on the peak of the mountain." He gestured to a wind-blown arch. "When you are far enough along in your training, you may be given the opportunity to meet with him. But for the moment, we would teach you the basics of the Voice."

"I am ready to learn sir," I said.

The four monks stood in a square centered on me. Lydia stood within earshot.

"Language is intrinsic to the very being of dragons. They have always had the ability to shout and when they fight, we are actually witnessing a verbal debate-indeed for dragons there is no distinction. You should also know that each 'Shout' or _Thu'um_, in the dragon language, can consist of up to three words. You already know '_fus_' the first word of the 'Unrelenting Force' Shout. Master Einarth will teach you 'balance' the second word of the Shout."

Looking at the ground at my feet, the robed man called Einarth whispered the word '_Ro_'.

A series of dragon letters appeared at my feet and again I felt the letters burn into my core as they did when I saw them on a word wall. The meaning remained in limbo, however. I knew instinctively that I would not be able to perform the Shout yet. Something else needed to click into place.

"Master Einarth will now share with you his understanding of _ro_," Arngeir said.

The silent man looked into my eyes from across the marks in the snow. It seemed to me his eyes glowed for a second as I felt the meaning of balance place itself firmly with the word '_ro'_ in my mind. Looking at the letters on the surface, I tried out the new sequence, "_Fus-ro_," I whispered, trying to control the impact of my efforts. I was rewarded with kicking up a cloud of white powder, clearing the dragon letters down to the flagstones covered by a foot of loose snow.

"Truly amazing Dragonborn," Arngeir exulted, "you have mastered in a half hour what most take months or a year to accomplish. Let us see how you learn a completely new Shout."

'_Wuld_' of Whirlwind Sprint was a challenge for me and only as the sun began to sink behind High Hrothgar did I finally master the lightning fast rush the Shout permitted.

"Well done today Dragonborn," Arngeir said as the six of us ate a meal consisting of hard bread, salted meat, dried vegetables, and mead. "Your progress is the stuff of legend. If I had not witnessed it for myself, I would have found it hard to credit."

"Thank you master," I replied. "But if I can be so bold, why are you teaching me at all? I don't subscribe to your philosophy."

"A dragonborn is an exception to all rules," Lydia said. The five of us looked surprised as we turned to her. "Akatosh made an exception to the natural order to give mortals dragon blood. Kynerath did the same when she gave other mortals the capacity to learn the _Thu'um_. It is only right that the Greybeards make exceptions to their rules for a dragonborn too."

"Well put housecarl Lydia," Arngeir said as the other monks nodded their agreement. "But some exceptions cannot be made. We will only ever teach shouts to those we deem ready to learn them."

"What is this test of readiness?" I asked.

"Scattered throughout Skyrim are ancient word walls, usually in protected places. In the ruin called Ustengrav, you will find the word for 'life'. In that fane also rests the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Bring the horn to us and we will hold you ready for the next step in your training."

"I will set out tomorrow," I said.

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**I always thought that Lydia had more going on upstairs then the game ever let on. In my view, as one of the first people Ieago develops a relationship with in Skyrim; it would naturally fall on her to be a practical guide as he explores his new country. As always, thank you for your kind regard and I look forward to reading your reviews.**


	12. On the Road East

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Though I gave this novel an 'M' rating specifically for its violent content, I feel that specific warnings are still a courtesy to my readers: This chapter depicts cruelty to animals and allusions to sexual violence. Both events are located in the second half of the chapter.**

* * *

Before turning in for the night, I stepped out to the courtyard to clear my head. I saw Lydia looking out from the top of the tower in the rear of the courtyard. Joining her silently, I sat facing north, my legs dangling over the eight-thousand foot precipice. The view was breathtaking. Masser and Secunda had reached the full and the light they reflected from Magnus was enough to cast discrete shadows. The forest in the far distance was inky black on the silver of reflected snow. Out on the horizon the northwest, the light pollution from Morthal, a town near our destination was a fuzz of orange above a crest of low mountains.

"We need to get horses," Lydia said.

"There's no money for horses," I answered. "We spent all our money putting Breezehome together." I stood and looked out to the east. The lights of Riften looked closer by many miles. "Perhaps we should walk to Riften and hire a cart from there?"

Lydia snorted, "Keep your hand on your gold then. Odds are we'll wind up robbed by a horse dealer if the Guild doesn't get to us first."

"They're businessmen like any other," I said. "We can make them see it's to their profit to leave us be."

We sat silently for a few minutes. "What do you think of this Dragonborn business Lydia?"

She sighed, collecting her thoughts, "I'm not sure I should say how I feel. I'm afraid of offending you."

"I'll start first then. This has been the most bizarre few months I have ever had. I've been a heretic, fugitive from a battle, illegal immigrant, escaped convict, mercenary, and errand boy. I _helped_ kill a dragon. I got told I'm that hot shit for my ability to yell at things. Then I talk to a local lord who tells me, 'You must be pretty hard. So you're a knight of the city now. Oh, and here's this hot babe who is going to follow you around to kick the living shit out of anything that so much as looks at you cross-eyed." I paused for a moment, watching goats leap on the rocks below, "I didn't go out of my way to be a hero or this Dragonborn legend made real. I took circumstances the Gods handed me and reacted with what my training dictated I should do. "Your turn," I prompted Lydia.

"When I heard Jarl Balgruuf dedicate me to your service, my heart sank," she admitted, looking at her lap for a moment before looking to the moons again. "I had worked for years to become a housecarl instead of just another town guard. All that work. The training,volunteering for whatever posting seemed most dangerous or prestigious, pacing the barracks or practice yard when nothing was happening. And then to be handed to a penniless, nameless outsider. And worse an Imperial."

"What's so bad about me being an Imperial?"

She sighed again, "Since childhood, I've always thought of Imperials as weaker than Nords, less honorable. Too much listening to the Gray-Manes I guess."

Before I could offer my views on Imperial honor she went on, "Then you stepped into the torch light by the doors and I saw that you were strong and handsome. After you sobered and up we got in the ring and I found that you were a skilled warrior. And all the while treating me like, well, like a gentleman. I had no idea people like you existed. I don't offer myself as a woman, but I love you the way many in your life must: You're a good friend. Now that you are the Dragonborn of legend, I get to be a part of that legend. And that's something special."

For a time we sat in silence, watching the moons inch westward.

* * *

We had camped overnight on the road to Riften a few days later. Once again I had given up on sleep with the rise of the sun. If Aela and Skjor had told me every day would start like this, I don't think I would have undergone the ritual. I've never been a morning person, but this was awful. Every day I would wake up tired (provided I had slept), feeling disoriented and sick. This feeling would persist for hours after the sun was up. And then there was the body hair and the smell: I shed constantly and my sweat mixed with my hair to perpetually leave me fighting the smell of wet dog. No wonder Vilkas was nasty all the time.

More disturbingly, I began to notice. . . well, 'the Other' is the best way I can describe him. As the days since my first transformation became weeks, I felt a new presence grow within me. It was a decidedly active intelligence. It was very aware of our sorroundings. It pointed out to me all it could detect through our shared and enhanced senses of smell and hearing. Its chief interests were various game animals and Lydia, who it found to be a desirable mate (I must confess, I agreed). None of this came through in words, the animal within had no need of them. It communicated instead through a series of pressures and shared urges that became less and less subtle and more insistent as the days went by. One sleepless night, I found myself thinking back to that conversation between Vilkas and Kodlak. This must be the "Call of the Blood" that had the younger man so upset. Once again, I gave up on sleep with the rising of the sun.

Mercifully, there was a brook near the road for me to get cleaned up in while Lydia slept. I found that daily bathing and constant shaving kept my problems in check and the bath helped me feel more human for a while. So it was today that after my bath and my shaving ritual I almost felt like humming.

Instead I caught the scent of horse sweat and leather. I heard Lydia quietly stirring as she began to feel the vibrations of the horses' hooves in her sleep. More clearly I heard the cackling and low jokes as the bandits surrounded her. As I crept closer, I could make out the scents of six individual horses. Their owners were all armed.

Lydia was up by that time. Her sword was drawn, but she was hopelessly out maneuvered. My own gear was a pile on my bedroll next to hers. My one option was not one I wanted. I submitted to the beast within, letting it take over my body as I rushed forward at the man just now spurring toward Lydia with the flat of his blade ready to subdue her. I got to him first, my 400 pound frame blowing him off the rearing horse. He went down with a bone-breaking crash and my mouth tore his throat for good measure.

I turned at the sound of one charging me, point leveled. I swiped my claws at his horse's mouth, its teeth shattering like chalk and stopping it in its tracks. One roar sent the terrified animal out of the fight and its rider with it. The last four went down in a mist of blood, saliva, and fur.

The beast I had become was covered in the blood its prey. Its own was racing in the triumph of the kill. The beast turned on the female he had fought for. She was shaking. Her sweat reeked of terror. Images of what would follow flashed across its eyes. It would be so easy, to feel the hard skin under the thin linen gambeson. To tear it away. It was almost on top of her, nose to nose. She fell back and the beast continued forward. Her eyes were so big, her scent intoxicating.

A sudden moment of clarity. Like a gust of wind freshening an old scent. Shame for what had just passed. The beast turned and bolted the way it came.

I came back a few minutes later in my human form. Lydia was quietly rocking herself, knees hugged to her chest. I sat down beside her and held her close, rubbing her back and letting her tears stain my shoulder. Over the next hour I coaxed the morning's events out of her between sobs, "When it was done killing...it just looked at me. I think it wanted to..." she broke for a second and turned to look at me. "Where were you?" she screamed.

"Lydia," I said softly, looking into my lap, "The wolf had red fur."

Things began to fall in place behind her eyes, "Gods! The sleepless nights, the shaving, the smell..."

I nodded, far from proud of myself. "Let's get moving, I'll tell you all about it on the road."

The rest of the trip was uneventful. Riften was every bit as bad as Lydia warned me it would be. Rather than tolerate being shaken down by the guards at the gate, we snuck in though the meadery, one of several buildings that penetrated the wall abutting the lake. Lydia and I engaged a room for the night in one of the local inns.

We pushed our bed against the door that night and did not linger in the morning. I had seen two shakedowns; an assault; we were solicited for graft from the meadery we had just trespassed through; the cries of a robbery in progress were heard on the street; and a local con tried to recruit me as an accessory. All of this before I could so much as pay for our room.

* * *

**Events like Ieago's rescue of Lydia are the reason I rarely use animals in this story or any of the games I might play: It's not their fight, but they get hurt all the same. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and learned a little more of my take on Lydia's character and the price of Skjor and Aela's 'gift.' I value your feedback and look forward to hearing from you!**


	13. Rough Place

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Thank you Chippermovie for taking the time to review my story. I have taken your thoughts to heart and hope to incorporate them into the narrative soon. 1000 views! I'm thrilled that so many have taken the time to read this! One last thing, the word blocked by the messenger service concerning a story that revolves around acts of dismemberment: "douchebag." There, I said it. And now, a light transitional chapter to be followed by some badassery later in the week.**

* * *

Our journey to Morthal was a troubled one. The cart we hired was slow and the springs were rusted solid. Our driver was a decent enough man, but became progressively more agitated as we approached the northern bounds of the Rift.

These western roads once carried commerce to and from Morrowind before the Red Year, but saw little traffic afterwards. The roads were in marginal condition and by no means safe. No army bothered to patrol here. The Stormcloaks had riper pickings to the south and east and the Legion followed them, leaving the area to the most desperate bandits. Even the presence of two armed warriors was not enough to allay the driver's anxiety.

We rested for two days in Windhelm, Jarl Ulfric's capital. Our driver was down at the docks negotiating a cargo for the next stage of his journey so Lydia and I had plenty of time to explore.

Windhelm was an ancient city, among the oldest settlements of humans still inhabited on the continent of Tamriel. It reminded me of one of the Nordic ruins, but life had yet to abandon it. The stone used was dark and much of the woodwork had aged to match.

My marginal opinion of Jarl Ulfric deteriorated as I explored the city he ruled. While his policies were not patently bigoted-he sanctioned no pogroms like the ones my ancestors espoused against the Ayleids. Neither did he demean himself with the political witch-hunts and religious antagonism the Thalmor practiced in Cyrodiil and their other possessions. Yet I frowned on his segregation of the city along racial lines.

The large Dunmer population, largely recent immigrants from Morrowind, were tightly packed into a ghetto on the east side of the city. Humans and Elves alike had christened the area the "Grey Quarter." The streets were polluted and narrow, the militia rarely to be seen. The evening Lydia and I stepped out of a Grey Quarter establishment called the New Gnisis Corner Club, we stumbled upon a pair of drunken humans howling profanity and racial epithets at the top of their lungs. No guard moved to enforce public order and I got the idea that such behavior was not tolerated in the human-dominated blocks of the city.

I suppose the Dunmer of Windhelm should count themselves fortunate: the local Argonians were granted a single warehouse by the city docks to call home, and entry to the city proper forbidden outright.

No, I doubt that bigotry has as firm a grip on his heart as Ulfric's detractors would like us to believe. Yet I feel strongly that his policies fostered bigotry among his people. Such treatment is how the Thalmor would (and too often did) treat us back in Cyrodiil and their possessions. This wasn't what my father and I had served our Empire for. This wasn't the tolerance the Companions embraced. I was glad to leave that sullen and divided city behind me.

* * *

We inched our way north and west toward the city of Morthal. The weather deteriorated into a series of snow squalls as we moved north into a large west-east Yorgrim Mountains that divided Skyrim roughly in half. More than once, Lydia and I were asked to get out and help push the carriage and its load of salt forward.

There was a castle called Fort Dunstad situated in the valley that dvides the Yorgrim Mountains. It was there that we stopped for the night at the on-site inn, happy to have a decently warm and well defended place to sleep after many days on the increasingly cold road.

The hostess was a borderline attractive woman who was visibly awkward and unused to serving food and drinks to her establishment's patrons. She was anxious, discouraging small talk and deflecting questions about herself and the fort while our driver, Lydia, and I sat at the bar eating lukewarm food. After a few minutes she stepped out to "see about our beds."

The Other and I reached a rare point of agreement: Something about this tavern within the well-guarded fort was very wrong. The muscles along my shoulders and the top of my spine were tight and my hearing and smell strained for a specific threat. In another guise, my ears would be tight against my head, the tips touching my raised hackles. The sentient part of me had a better idea of the threat than the animal. I sipped my warm ale and nodded my dismissal to our hostess, who practically ran for the door.

"They rob people here," I said as soon as the door was closed.

"They don't just rob them Thane, they kill them. Look at those drag marks by the trap door to the cellar," she replied in the same worried voice.

"We leave. Right now," I whispered as the barkeeper returned with a few powerful looking men and women behind her. "Hostess!" I said as the three of us stood, "We're grateful for the meal, but we really must be moving on before the evening closes in."

The thugs behind her moved to block our path. Lydia's sword was out in a flash. I lit Revenant and allowed the tip to scar the floorboards before holding it to the woman's throat, "Oh no, good lady, we must insist: time is precious to us and our errand."

With that I grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Blade to my hostage's throat, Lydia and I bracketed our driver and edged out the door. The three of use bolted to the untouched cart and the driver pulled us out of Fort Dunstad's walls as fast as the tired horse would go.

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**What can I say? I can't have EVERY challenge Ieago meets be resolved by violence. As you might have guessed, I don't think much of Ulfric Stormcloak and I project that attitude onto my main character. I know this is a point of contention among fans of the game (my initial impulse was to join the rebellion). I merely hope that this choice will not alienate potential readers from my story or make Ieago appear too rabid a loyalist to fit his usually detached personality.**


	14. Verbal Assault

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. For something that started a year ago as a hobby to keep me busy on my frequent business trips, I think this has done well. After only a few weeks, I'm thrilled that so many have taken the time to read my story; that a modest number of you have decided to follow; and that some have even taken the time to offer me the feedback that I hope will make Ieago's adventures more compelling. Once again, thanks to you all.**

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We were not far from the turnoff to Morthal when we heard the town bell ringing wildly under the low grey sky. Smoke rose above the hills before us. A familiar roar came from the cloud deck.

"Stay here," I told our driver. Lydia and I dropped down and made our way into town. The burning village was a slice of Pandemonium. Lydia and I stood in the town's small square. People swirled around us, down the streets, and into the marshes. A small group of the braver militia stood in front of their jarl's longhouse. I rubbed the red diamond cut into my pauldron while looking around at the chaos.

I remember hearing Lydia crack her knuckles before drawing her sword. I wings beat above and with a crash the green-scaled dragon landed before us. Looking braver than I felt, I drew and ignited my magicka saber. Revenant's emerald blade hissed to life with a confidence I did not share, a bold challenge of its own to the horror before me.

The beast answered. Standing on its feet and tail, its head nearly cleared the roves behind it. Its leathery pinions filled the square with their shadow. It bore down on me and roared. Not the _Thu'um_, but an ear-shattering battle cry issued from the dragon's throat to fill lesser creatures with dread.

I shouted the reply that the Greybeards had taught me, "_Fus-ro_!"

What might have been surprise flashed in the dragon's eyes as it staggered back. Its wings beat, pushing me down as it launched into the air. As it passed over the longhouse, it snatched at the roof with its talons, scattering thatch and timbers in my direction. I flinched away, looking back to see the dragon had turned about in the clouds before diving hard at me. A blue-white hole appeared in its open mouth.

I knelt beneath the magical ward I cast, hoping it would be charged enough to deflect some of the dragon's frigid breath. There was no time for the spell to develop properly however, and the ancient words broke through my magical shield with ease. Every nerve in my body screamed out as heat leached into the hoarfrost coating my skin in the dragon's wake.

Lydia yanked me back to my feet. "Where is it?" I demanded. She shook her head and pointed into the clouds. I began to cast my healing spell. The partially blocked ice breath had hurt: my left hand could barely move. "Where are you, motherfucker?" I growled into the clouds.

The dragon swooped down in front of me. Before I could think of what I was doing, I drove my blade high. The dragon's scales cheated me of a quick kill. The blade only scored the thick belly scales and bent my wrist back as the beast flashed over my head. A roar came rom deep within the clouds. The Other within me trembled: in the language of predators, the dragon's roar meant 'I smell victory.'

The sky was quiet for a moment. I looked about, Revenant's excited hum wavering as I tried to see and hear everywhere at once. The town bell had ceased its tolling, the crackle of the fires the only sound from the buildings. The town guards shouted at each other, looking to the sky as Lydia and I were.

The next roar felt as if it came from inches above my head. I had no time to react before a wall of iron and lime wood caught me low on the hip and launched me feet away. Lydia howled in pain, having taken the full force of the dragon's breath.

I freaked at the sight of my friend lying in the icy wake of the dragon's attack. I almost dropped Revenant in my panicked haste to cast Healing Hands on Lydia. As soon as she could move she pointed, "That way," she gasped. I broke off my spell at Lydia's insistent glare.

Our enemy had whirled up and far away, just in sight above the rooftops. Almost a dot, the dragon turned back toward me and dove hard for the road. It glided in at head-height with tremendous speed. When the creature was almost on top of me, its body disappeared in the column of white snow and ice coming from its mouth. I sidestepped and held my blade high. It contacted the creature's belly just above my head. I feared that the force would wrench the blade from by hand, but there was Lydia's shield to brace my arm, the very last of her strength lent to my cut as the glowing blade gouged deep and the scales flashed by.

The dragon howled in shock and pain, climbing hard in a turn to escape the dreadful wound, but too much damage had been done. The climb stalled and the turn became a spin. My foe crashed through whole houses before it cut a trench in the muddy street and came to a halt.

But for the fires, all was silent. The guards formed a ring around the legendary creature. I brought my magicka saber high for the _coup-de-grace_. Its eye snapped open, a black pit of hatred that head-butted me off my feet and sent a spout of ice at the guards in its reach. It reared up high again. My hand came up in a warding spell as another gust of frigid air came from its mouth. This time I was fast enough. The teeth came down, my blade went up.

Time crawled when the tip of my blade bit home. The heat came again. A lifetime of images flashed into my brain. A black dragon with orange eyes inspecting me. A timid grey teaching me my role. Slaves groveling before me. A pale, angry man cutting down hard. A brutal Shout cutting deep into me. Blackness. The world below me. A grim man with a glowing blade in my mouth.

A steel covered hand grasped my saber and switched it off for me. It shifted to my arm to pull me out from under the dragon's skull. I looked around at the wreckage of Morthal in bewilderment. A crowd was gathering around the carcass of the dragon. There was pointing and whispering. The word 'Dragonborn' was passed around. I looked down at my slain foe, now an idle pile of bones. With a jolt I remembered something important.

"By the Divines, Lydia!" I gasped.

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**Character shields are a persistent challenge. On one hand you have to get the hero through the narrative. On the other hand the same narrative stops being compelling if the world rolls over on its back for the hero.**


	15. Aftermath

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Thanks to dtechie84 for becoming my 300th visitor! As always I'm thrilled that so many people have taken an interest in my work and I welcome all constructive feedback.**

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Our room at the Moorside Inn was pleasantly dark, lit only by the red coals filling the brazier the hostess had lent to us. Lydia slept peacefully on our bed, wrapped tightly in a wool blanket.

That was the outer layer around her. She had been exposed to a full blast of the dragon's breath that afternoon. The frostbite was not serious and had been rapidly treated by expert hands, but it was extensive. Beneath the wool, linen bandages padded large sections of blistered skin. Cotton gauze was wedged tightly between each finger before her hands were bound with yet more linen.

The residents of Morthal had made their gratitude known when they at last returned from their refuges in the mashes. A team of people almost fell over themselves carrying Lydia into the inn. Once there, she and I had our wounds treated by the Jarl's own daughter. The soup I was picking at in the semi-dark was free that night, and Lydia's would be as well once she woke up. I found all the attention draining, almost more so than the battle with the dragon and the frostbite on my arm. After an hour of constant attention I had been reduced to begging the endless pairs of charitable hands to remain at bay. They backed off reluctantly, only doing so after extracting a promise that I would inform them of my least need.

I dropped my spoon on the table as another deep itch traversed from my elbow to my fingertips in my left arm. It was an effort of willpower to keep myself from tearing into the bandages and splints to fruitlessly claw at the damaged tissue beneath. I winced again at the memory of my ward shattering under the dragon's assault.

"My daughter does not yet have sight so keen as mine, but she sees well enough to tell me I should have my own look at you," a mature woman's voice croaked into the silence. I looked across the brazier to see a hawk's face given human form. Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone looked at me impassively, her sharp features highlighted from below by the red coals.

"So what do you see?" I asked at length. She was a strange and reticent old woman and not in the habit of holding herself to one meaning per statement.

"You tell me. You think yourself a clever man."

"I'm going over the battle today, thinking on what went wrong."

"You seem to have done well. You ended the threat and came away with only a minor injury to your arm."

My left arm felt like fire again at the mention of its injury. "I also came close to getting my friend killed."

"_You_ nearly killed your housecarl? The last I looked, the frostbite covering her body came from the dragon. If my daughter tells me anything close to the truth, it was your healing spell that prevented the cold from going deep into her body."

Her words were not comforting. "The dragon was attacking me. If she hadn't taken the brunt of the dragon's breath, she'd be walking right now."

Her face frowned even more deeply in the red light, causing black shadows to fill her sunken cheeks. "Oh come now, young man. You're not so short-sighted as that. What is the housecarl's oath?"

"To protect me and mine with her life," I replied.

"And she proved herself able to just that today. So what do you owe her? What is the Thane's answer?"

"In Cyrodiil, the knight replies, 'To reward fealty with love and valour with honor'."

She nodded approvingly, "Well here in Skyrim we don't use such flowery prose, but the meaning is much the same. She did her duty to you, now it is in on you to love and honor her in return."

I shifted in the dark, uncomfortable under the Jarl's scrutiny. "I see where you're going with this ma'am, and I have every intention of keeping my half of my oath with Lydia or any other that might choose to follow me. . ."

Idgrod smiled slowly, ". . .but. . ."

I sighed, ". . .When I was a ranger back home, we'd occasionally have to fight a large group of criminals; or have a really desperate convict to subdue; a few times we even had to go into one of the old elven ruins. But no matter how dangerous the people or environment, the officers I followed at least gave me some hope of getting through alive. I feel that's part of the love and honor I owe to those who follow me. I don't want to become a walking suicide pact."

Idgrod chuckled, "You're half way to becoming a leader Dragonborn. Just remember that another part of love and honor, is not to cheapen the gifts and willing sacrifice of others." With that, the tall woman stood and disappeared into the black as she turned for the door. I saw her tall frame in the door as she strode noiselessly into the common room of the Moorside Inn.


	16. Ruined Cities

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Thanks to SwordsmanofS for taking a moment to review my story, every review helps me produce a better story. I hope you all had a fine Thanksgiving; and if you don't observe that particular holiday, I hope it was a decent Thursday for you.**

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I crept through the tall grass on the rise overlooking Ustengrav's barrow. A thin layer of snow crunched beneath my boots as I watched the hedge wizards going in and out of the large stone mound. Two in particular kept walking in and out, making agitated noises I couldn't quite pick out from my hiding spot.

After the terror of Bleak Falls Barrow and Dustman's Cairn, I could guess at their troubles. I slithered down the rock slide behind their camp to catch more of the argument. I had no luck however, in the wake of yesterday's snow the wind had begun to blow hard and cold from the Sea of Ghosts a few miles to the north. All I could make out was the flapping of robes and a few punctuated noises from their conversation.

After a few more agitated words I saw them turn and walk back up the large stone mound. The second they were out of sight below its top, I sprinted from my concealment and up the ridged edge of the barrow. Flopping over on my belly, I peered over the rim. Seeing nothing in the circular enclosure but trampled grass and a few inches of snow, I lowered myself into the pit and entered the mausoleum.

The entry way was a wide flight of stairs harshly lit by the white light of the world outside. Further in, the dark became more pervasive until it was pushed back by the yellow-orange light of fires deeper within the fane.

I followed the passage as it descended down and to the right. Before long it opened up into what seemed to be the standard ancient Nord building. The room was much like a great wooden hall dug into the earth. Even the arches resembled wooded rafters carved from stone. Many feet above my head, tree roots forced their way through long clapboards made of smoke-blackened rock. At the far end, the hall narrowed back down into a wide street, now hopelessly choked by a cave-in. The two mages I had followed were standing at the debris pile and gesturing at the three figures working to dig the passage out. I crept closer and peered out from behind one of the great stone arches to listen.

"I'm telling you, they last less time and get dumber with every reanimation!" One of the mages was complaining to the other while I crouched in the dark and advanced to hear better.

"The Mistress wants the road cleared in a few days. And she won't accept your excuses!" The other snapped back. I nearly stumbled over a patch of roots in the dark and chose to stop.

The complainer let out a frustrated sigh. "Fine! I'll raise a few more for what good it'll do. But when they've worked themselves into piles of ash before the way is open, don't yell at me!"

While they were arguing, my wolf eyes were adapting to the dark. In the bluish light, I saw that the 'roots' my feet had tangled in were the remnants of a small group of bandits. I dove for the bodies the second I saw the two mages begin to turn around.

I held by breath and willed my eyes not to blink as the two necromancers hovered over me and my camouflage. Years ago, a few other guards and I had been ordered to subdue a group of this sort of mage. They had set up a laboratory in Varondo, a ruined Ayleid city. A simple arrest had turned into a nightmare. The wizards' experiments had grown beyond their control. We found their half-eaten bodies near the entrance. Deeper in the results of their unholy work still shuffled and growled through the old sub-basements.

We had eventually brought in a mage of our own. My memory of the robed Synod in the blue-green light of the welkynd stones remains to me an unsettling display of magical force. The abominations had fallen in droves under the press of his fiery attacks.

So I froze under the mages' unknowing gaze and prayed they would not pick me for reanimation.

"Those two, over there," the wizards with the commanding tone said, "and that one with the red mark on his shoulder. They look fresh enough."

My eyes grew wide as the blue flames of unnatural life began to cover my body. The spell accomplished nothing, but I rose with the other two corpses and did my best to stare vacantly. My summoner didn't deign to speak, but my new friends shuffled toward the cave-in and grabbed tools. I followed behind.

For what felt like an eternity I hacked at the rocks with a pick, even making real progress with my tireless workmates. The complainer's predictions had come true. Two of the older diggers had already expired. I was worried I might do the same. My arms ached with the effort and sweat trickled down my back. I was beginning to wonder how I could extract myself from this mess when the sounds of boots on stone echoed from a passage to my left.

"We're leaving! Now!" an elderly Altmer in a green robe bellowed. To more of her adepts cast fireballs blindly into the darkness behind her.

"But there's still more to do!" One of my supervisors objected. "We can send more of these thralls in to deal with the draugr."

But their chief was adamant, "No! Silas, Argamir, and Eyja are dead already. We leave and come back with a _large_ force of mercenaries to clear this place out! We should never have come here."

"But what about..." the junior mage was cut off again.

"Leave them! With any luck the draugr will be satisfied with them."

As the necromancers departed I tossed my pick aside. My aching arms sang with relief as I listened for footsteps in the side passage. The keen hearing of the Beast Blood easily picked up on the dull clack of iron-studded boots on stone. I fled the mouth of the passage, terrified at whatever had so casually driven off five mages and killed three more. My disinterested friends continued their excavation with out the least sense of worry.

Out of ideas, I scrambled up a half-fallen section of an arch as far up as I could go. I looked down from my perch just in time to see four draugr stride into the hall. Their leader wore a helm with horns polished as black as the ebony scimitar in his grasp. Behind him two former men and a woman wore the remnants of less imposing armor. Ice dripped from their raised hands.

The former humans looked upon the revived diggers for just a second. I counted only a few of my own racing heartbeats before they Shouted as one. "_Fus ro dha_!"

The dead bandits smashed into their work under the unified assault. My spine tingled in sympathy as I heard bones shatter without a noise of complaint from the miners. Brutal daggers of ice flew out from the spell casters into the broken forms. I choked down a gasp as on of the revived miners got up on what was left of his legs to resume his work. The draugr with the tall helm buried his ebony blade deep into the man's skull.

The four undead searched and ordered the hallway. The bodies of the dead were piled to one side and the recovered weapons and tools were sorted and stacked on the ground beneath my perch. Not once did they think to look up and see their frightened observer.

I waited in the deep shadows near the roof for several minutes after the four at length withdrew into the side passage. Against my better judgment, I dropped down and followed them deeper into Ustengrav.

The mages' intrusion had sparked a ferocious battle in the dark. From the tables and chairs where they sat over long decayed food in a mimicry of life, the draugr had raged at the handful of mages. Many draugr lay upon the ground, appearing burned or blasted apart by some powerful impact. I thought at first that their efforts to punish the mages temerity had been costly, but as I crept behind my unwitting guides I saw faint pinpricks of blue light in most of their eyes. The impression was one of many people glaring at me from under slitted eyes while they pretended to sleep.

The four draugr I followed made a slow and uneven progress through their dim halls. I watched them closely from my hiding places under tables or behind urns and book cases. It occurred to me that they looked like a triage team while the spell casters sorted and stacked the bodies while the horned one looked on.

They led me at length to the opposite end of the caved-in thoroughfare. It ended abruptly in a three-way intersection with the end opposite the rubble blocked by a door. Once more I crept to a safe place and waited for them to clear the hallway and move on. The flicker of glowing eyes is all that saved me from decapitation. I dove and rolled away as an ancient claymore threw sparks from its impact on the wall where my head had been.

"_Volaan_!" The newcomer croaked. Four sets of glowing eyes turned on me, a constellation of blue stars blocking my way. I bolted through them as the spell casters readied their insidious ice spikes again. I threw open the door and dashed through, bracing it shut on the other side as chunks of ice hammered the dry wood.

I pushed off and ran blindly into Ustengrav's depths. I had not gotten far when a familiar Shout shoved me off my feet. I picked myself up as a flight of cold darts raced over my head. I ran hard for the growing light in the corridors ahead.

The claustrophobic halls gave way abruptly to a large natural expanse. I skidded to a halt on the suddenly slick floor, arms flailing as I lurched back from the sudden drop at my feet.

My path now turned sharply to the left, a sort of balcony cut into the wall of the huge sinkhole that Ustengrav was built around. The draugr's frigid projectiles flew fast, shattering by my feet as I fled.

The road veered right, flying out over the deep gulf lit by the sun and falling water from the open ceiling of the cavern. A needle of ice drove into my shoulder, stabbing with frigid pain. I held back a cry and ran harder, clutching my numb arm tight to my chest.

I saw too late that my bridge was broken. Some forgotten incident had parted the span by more than twenty feet and the opposite end bent several feet downwards. My burning lungs drew yet another breath.

"_Wuld_!" I gasped as the edge of the shattered walkway flew beneath me. The opening word of Whirlwind Sprint carried me forward over the bottomless pit and let me off over the opposite end of the bridge with feet to spare. The landing was awkward. I fell again and wound up rolling sideways with the tremendous momentum of the Shout. The flared base of a column guided me a few feet upwards before gravity took over and I stopped at last.

It was only to be a brief rest. I pushed off with my good arm again as yet more ice bore toward me. Now arrows clattered against the stone as more of the guardians recovered from the necromancers' trespass. I sprinted behind the column and down the ramp it connected to. The ramp led to a wide gallery exposed to the sight and anger of my tormentors. I at last got a ward up with my working hand and dashed to the natural ramp leading deeper into the pit. It curved around the wall of the sinkhole back to the side I hand entered on. At last I was out of the sight of my furious pursuit.

True to the Greybeard's prediction, there was a word wall at the bottom of the sinkhole. It had been raised as a place of contemplation, placed adjacent to the base of a waterfall. Shallow stone steps dropped inch by inch into the pool. The vegetation was all brown with the passing of the autumn, but the effect was one of life after the grim display of the halls above.

The genuine beauty of the area was wasted on me at that moment as my body began to calm down and the extent to which I had been battered took its toll. I sat down in the cradle of the wall and reached over my right shoulder. My gloved hand grasped the ice lodged there and pulled hard. I cried out when the spike at last vacated my body. In shock I looked at the dagger in my hand. It was an icicle almost nine inches long. The boiled leather of my shoulder pad had kept it from penetrating far, but threads of thick black blood decorated the last two inches that had driven though the leather and into my shoulder. Throbbing sensation returned to my right arm with its removal and I sat back on my heels, barely able to keep my head up as I cast my healing spell.

My heartbeat was back to normal and the aches of my flight had receded when I looked up at the wall before me. '_Laas_' grabbed my attention and its meaning swirled into me as 'life.' Soon the rest of the engraved letters became clear to me:

_Remember the wisdom of the Hoar-Father: Those who seek for life after death should do deeds worth boasting of. Those who do not look for the afterlife should accomplish feats worth remembering._

I looked down at the red diamond on my injured shoulder, "I can't say I'll have nothing to talk about," I murmured to myself. "_Laas_," I repeated the word as a whisper and found that was all I needed. The result was not unlike the detect life spell I had tried months ago, but the feel of it was more controlled. Detect life had overwhelmed me with information, draining my manna reserves and harming my body with its oppressiveness. I would need months more practice before that spell became practical. In the whisper of life I saw the world in much the same way, but somehow could filter out the irrelevant information. It felt like looking for a person hiding in the undergrowth of a forest.

I looked up, seeing faint impressions of the draugr pacing far above. They were more numerous now but no longer looking for me, instead they moved about as if still cleaning their home. Looking about with my conventional senses, I concluded the bottom of this cavern was a dead end. The reaming option was a still intact stone bridge linking the gallery I had landed on and a wide tunnel boring directly into the face of the wall. I got up and started walking on tired legs.

Not long after entering that final tunnel, I came at last to the sepulcher of Jurgen Windcaller. The path to his elaborate coffin was bracketed by four tall stone dragon heads rising out of shallow pools. His coffin was a work of art. Akatosh was on the face in a carved relief, his wings spread wide and serpentine tail coiled beneath him. Four more dragons looked out from posts at the corners of the carved stone box, a sentry for every direction. A grasping hand extended from the middle of the lid. I took the note written on fresh paper from its fingers and read:

_Dragonborn:_

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood._

_I'll meet you._

_-A Friend._

How could I not feel let down? To acquire the Greybeards' precious horn I had faked my resurrection. I had run from undead who could not draw breath, yet could Shout with enough force to shatter my body. I had leapt over a hundred-foot abyss. For a piece of paper. Looking behind the coffin, I went through yet another door. Gold and weapons were piled high in the small chamber behind Jurgen's resting place. I ignored his hoard and moved up the winding passage that guided me up to a barred door. Lifting the rotten wood, I found myself in a secluded area of the great entry hall not far from where I had hacked at the caved-in thoroughfare for hours.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't handle it. My mind would start a thought only to stop again before it could finish. I stood stupidly in the dark not able to will myself forward another step, unsure of how to react to this slap in the face that fate had just delivered.

"This is bullshit," I finally managed.

* * *

"All this was for nothing Lydia," I said as I handed her the note upon my return to the Moorside Inn. "Looks like we're going back to the other side of Skyrim. I was still angry a day later. Riverwood was weeks and a mountain range away.

"We could save a few days if we go through Labyrinthian," Lydia suggested.

Now there was a name I didn't want to hear after going though Ustengrav. The ruins of Labyrinthian held a reputation for attracting the supernatural and dangerous. "Are sure that's wise Lydia? Even in the south Labyrinthian is a name of ill-omen."

She shrugged in her seat. "It's not uncommon for merchants to use the ruins as a shortcut. The worst I've ever heard of in recent times is a few wolf packs. I think it's worth the risk Ieago. We don't have the supplies or money for the month the trip to Whiterun means. Going though Labyrinthian cuts the travel time in half."

I nodded, accepting Lydia's logic.

The next morning we departed for the south. Morthal's population had decided to weigh us down with supplies for weeks on the road and refused to accept a single septim for their wares and food. Many followed us for miles along the road, offering advice and farewells as they turned around at last to repair their town.

We arrived at Labyrinthian a few days later in heavy snow. Bromjunarr, the ruin's ancient name, must have been a glorious city in its day. Situated on a pass in the mountains on a straight line between Whiterun and the abandoned harbor of High Gate, it would have been an important way station, capable of employing thousands of people. The ruined buildings crammed in the narrow valley and built up the slopes of the mountains could have held a population the size of Whiterun and Windhelm combined.

Now the buildings were cold and dark, their doors and small windows black voids from a distance. The ruined city seemed somehow offended by our presence and impatient for us to leave. Dragon-themed decorations jutted out from the peaks of the largest mansions and from each joint in the city's long curving walls. Each stone head glowered down at us as we trudged up the winding causeway beneath the north wall. In the mists above us, a dragon wafted in and out of sight. Overloaded by our bulging packs and exhausted from our ordeals, we kept low and made our way from empty house to vacant shop. I did not feel safe again until we were below the tree line on the south side of the pass and the lights of Dragonsreach beckoned from the horizon.

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**My experience going though Ustengrav made the game for me. I was picking my way though first playthough and hadn't really grown fond of Skyrim yet. Then I crawled out of that barrow with an empty health bar and totally disoriented in the middle of the night. I started walking across the foggy marsh to Solitude and the background music started playing the city's theme ( watch?v=gbVI53QLEYg). It stuck a cord and I was hooked.**


	17. Woman Scorned

**Thanks for yet another review and another group of followers joining this past week. I'm flattered to no end that you think enough of my story to want to know when more is published and that you want to tell me what you think of it. Keep it coming and keep it constructive. I love playing this game and I love writing about it!**

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Explaining that I had business at Jorrvaskr, I left Lydia at Breezehome and sought out Aela. It had been almost two months since the Greybeards had called me from Jorrvaskr and I was worried.

"Aela, you look awful," I said as she let me into the room she had shared with Skjor. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

The grey-purple bags beneath her eyes could no longer be concealed with war paint. Her ribs, always there to count, were readily apparent. Instead of the strong, slender beauty I had first beheld in daylight, she had become lean and feral.

"I've been taking the fight to our enemies," she replied in a quiet monotone. Her voice was devoid of the confident tones she had used when I was slow to assist the Companions that first night I came to Whiterun. She just sat on her bed, arms crossed beneath hunched shoulders. "But now I need your help," Aela murmured, looking like she was speaking to her knees.

I sighed, resigned to keeping the promise I had made over Skjor's body. "What's my first target?"

"I need more information on their plans against us. I've tracked one of their leaders to Fort Greymoor out to the west of here. Bring back anything you can locate on their plans. We must know everything we can find out about these vermin." Her last word came out clearly, saturated by her hate.

"I'll go at once Aela. On the condition that you start eating again and get some sleep."

"Just get it done, Ieago."

I stopped in the door and looked back over my shoulder at her. Her unfocused eyes, hunched shoulders, and ashen skin spoke volumes.

"I can't imagine how Skjor's death must hurt you Aela. But I'm begging you: don't let your hunger for revenge get in the way of the rest of your life. The living care for you too."

Her angry frown followed me all the way out of Jorrvaskr.

* * *

Many of the forts that stand abandoned all over Tamriel are not truly ancient. Built to secure the peace as the empires of Tiber Septim and Reman Cyrodiil expanded and contracted; they served their purposes, were decommissioned, and left to decay. These ruins are only a few hundred years old in most cases. Further, many are located in strategically important places. Fort Greymoor was one of those forts.

If Jarl Balgruuf wanted to solidify his independence from the Stormcloaks and convince the Empire to stop pressuring him for garrison rights, he would make a great start by repairing Fort Greymoor and placing his own garrison there.

The castle consists of six low towers arranged around a five-sided enclosure and a gate that faces the road to the south. The keep on the northwest wall and its three attached towers had collapsed in some forgotten battle or from neglect. A wooden palisade had been erected by the fort's current inhabitants to replace the crumbling east wall. Any person with a decent fortune would be able to restore the fort to its original state in a few weeks. As it stands now it is nigh uninhabitable.

Further, its position is valuable. It sits upon the road that links western Skyrim to the center. It was close enough that the garrison there could easily support Whiterun in the event of an attack from the east. Nothing could move into western Skyrim without the consent of the master of this fortress. It made a fine place to harass a mercenary company that operated throughout the Kingdom.

Lydia and I waited out the day in a burned-out shack not far from the castle. She was not pleased with my choice to leave her behind, but I needed to hit the castle without being detected. Getting past the closely watched gate was a simple affair. The palisade was not the good work of any Legionnaire and I was able to shift one of the wooden stakes without noise. Breaking into the keep was as simple as opening the front door.

In one of the larger, cleaner rooms of Fort Greymoor, I overheard a meeting getting under way.

"The red-haired bitch is on a rampage," One of the attendees was telling the two others.

"That will happen when you kill her mate Uthred," the man's voice said.

By then I had crept into the large room. Apart from the large area with a table around which the three leaders were gathered, book cases subdivided the room into a small area for sleeping and another set up as a small office. A fire popped and crackled against the far wall.

"One-eye was abomination like the rest of them. Krev was doing his duty," the one called Uthred snapped back.

"Enough, both of you," a woman's voice commanded. I peered from around the shelves forming the office where I had chosen to hide. The speaker was a woman who I might carefully call 'statuesque' (and not to her face if I wanted to live.) "The Bitch will eventually bite off more than she can choke down. She's come close already. Now what can you tell me about the other wolves in the pack?" She went on.

The unnamed man spoke again, "The Alpha frets in his den. He is sickly and tired. The Brooding One talks to him often, but does little of concern to us. The Big One is almost as dangerous as the Bitch-maybe more so-but he doesn't hunt us like she does. He was the one that struck us at Dustman's Carin. The Bitch is back at the den, doing normal business and recovering. She's been working herself ragged and can't keep pace with her hate."

"And the Runt?" The big woman asked.

"We haven't seen him in weeks. The rumor mill in Whiterun says he killed that dragon by the west tower this past fall. Some of the guards say he was the Dragonborn that the Greybeards were shouting for."

"See that he's located immediately. Now what can we do about the Bitch and her attacks?"

Uthred spoke this time, "I have enough hunters here and elsewhere to attack them in their den, but it will take time to get them past the city militia. The locals protect the abominations fiercely. What I want to do is kill the Alpha. He's the heart of their little pack and they may fracture without him. If we catch a few of the others, so much the better"

"Do what you need to do, but make sure it succeeds. We don't have enough hunters left to sustain a war." The woman said, breaking up the meeting.

The two lieutenants left their captain at her table. I took the opportunity to shift to a spot beneath her bed. I was glad I made the move when I did. She got up and began writing in the little office just as I slid into my new place. A page in her journal later, she sat down on the edge of the bed and blew out her lantern. She set it on the floor in front of my face and slid beneath her blankets.

I waited until the iron of the lantern was cool before I dared to move. I stood up and thought hard about killing the woman in her sleep, but ultimately found the idea unworthy. She and I would have a chance to fight yet. I was sure of it.

I had just shut her door behind me with her journal in one of my armor's pockets when my luck turned. One of the lower-ranking Silver Hand stepped out of the closet where he had been relieving himself. He was not happy to see an armed stranger in his castle in the middle of the night and made it clear by shouting for help, drawing a dagger, and backing away from the better-equipped man before him.

His good sense saved his life. His leader was not so fortunate. Her hastily booted foot kicked her door open, coming inches from tagging me in the face. My emerald green blade was lit in an instant, batting aside her silver sword and driving deep into her heart.

I looked back in the direction of the Silver Hand who had raised the alarm. "_Yol_!" I shouted, sending hot flame at his retreating form. My flaming breath ignited the tattered rugs on the stone floor behind him. I slammed and bolted the office door behind me as the noise of shouting came down the hall from other rooms. I took a minute to breathe and consider my options. Already there was pounding on the door as I dragged the woman's body into place as a makeshift doorstop. I cast a spell of night vision, hoping that the blue-tinted sight that resulted would reveal some detail I could use to escape the dozens of furious people outside the captain's room. With relief I saw a trap door set in the ceiling at the rear of the room.

From the roof, I shouted fire down into the room to further discourage pursuit and slammed the trap door beneath me. The deteriorating stonework of the tower offered enough hand holds to let me drop down outside the castle wall and run hard from the increasingly organized pursuit.

Only years of quiet movement in the woods and meadows of my homeland saved me. Whirlwind Sprint would have been nice, but even a whisper would have carried too far. Hindsight being perfect, I could have used my beast from to sprint away from the killers, but I didn't dare. In my haste I could not focus properly to make the shift. At that moment it was all I could do to keep track of the six angry killers hunting me while I crept slowly away from the smoking tower. As the sun began to dawn, the pursuit faltered and when it came up above the horizon, the chase ended altogether. Instead I overheard hooves stampeding the earth as they accelerated east to get ahead of my return to Whiterun.

I found Lydia waiting anxiously for me in the shack and the two of us broke south toward Riverwood without delay. I gave her the intelligence for Aela and as we got to Whiterun's western watch tower. I told her to meet me on the road half way between Whiterun and Riverwood when she was done. Aela and the rest of the Circle would know best how to defend Kodlak.


	18. A Long Walk to A Short Life

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Edit: Just fixed a bunch of spelling errors and bad editing. Sorry about that team. You deserve a better product than that!**

* * *

I kept a slow pace and walked well to the south of the road to Whiterun. I had gone about half way to Riverwood when I was able to rendezvous with Lydia without incident and continue on to that pleasant village. I grilled her for every detail she could remember of Aela on the way there. That huntress had been all I could think about. She had looked so worn and empty at Jorrvaskr. By Lydia's report and the ones she was able to get from the other Companions, Aela was away from Jorrvaskr often and when she was there she kept to her room. She had looked tired and worn according to Lydia.

We arrived in Riverwood and after exchanging news with Alvor and his family, Lydia and I went into the Sleeping Giant Inn. The low and dark building was like any other tavern I have ever visited. The bar and the publican were stationed together at one end of a large common room. Tables lined the wall and a set of benches surrounded an unlit hearth in the middle of the room. A wench was keeping an eye on the barflies drifting in. A few of the younger patrons were doing their early evening light drinking in preparation for heavy drinking later on. A tone-deaf bard was butchering a perfectly good song off in a corner. Doors off to the side led to various rooms for travelers staying the night.

Lydia and I sat down at the hearth and soon the barmaid came up to take our orders. She was what in Cyrodiil would be termed a 'saber-cat.' She was well into her middle years, fifty if she was a day, but had refused to give up on maintaining the body of a much younger woman. Her face however, was hard. This was not a woman who had led an easy youth and maintained her appearance out of vanity and denial. Her face was weather-worn and the faded lines of scars could be seen on her neck and arms. She was ready to run and kill anybody that got in her path. She was also the woman I had seen speaking with Farengar in Dragonsreach months ago.

"So you're the ones that have been hanging around Alvor's place. What can I get you?" she asked.

"If it's available, I'd like the attic room for the night," I replied.

"Well the Sleeping Giant doesn't have an attic room, but I do have a room for you. I'll take you there."

She led us into the largest of the three guest rooms and shut the door behind her.

"Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger. This is the only way I could be sure this wasn't some Thalmor trap," she said.

"You aren't the only one here the Talmor want dead," I replied, "Who are you and why did you make me hike across half the province?"

"Please be patient, I'll give you the horn back. I swear I'm on your side just give me a chance."

"Make it fast then."

"Follow me," with that she went to a wardrobe placed against the wall of her room. It turned out to have a false back and a flight of stairs leading down to a safe house. She looked over her shoulder at Lydia, frowning.

"Lydia goes where I do. Period," I said.

The woman was not happy but accepted the inevitable. In the room at the bottom of the stairs she leaned over a table with a large map and the Greybeards' precious horn on it.

"I'm Delphine, an agent of the Blades. We've been looking for you. Or someone like you for a very long time."

"I've heard of the Blades," I replied. "I thought you had been wiped out during the Great War."

Delphine nodded, "Most of us were. Those of us not killed by the Thalmor by the end of the war went into hiding. So far as I know, I'm the only one in Skyrim."

"What do you want with me?"

"I think you're the key to stopping this dragon crisis, but I just need to be sure."

"You have my attention," I said.

"What the Greybeards didn't tell you is that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragon-slayer. They're nothing if not predictable. For centuries, the Blades have served the Dragonborn, preparing against the day of the dragons' return."

"I thought the dragons were extinct."

"Not exactly. Only a handful was known by my order to remain alive. The dragons aren't coming back; they're coming back to life. That stone you found in Bleak Falls Barrow was a map of dragon burial mounds. I've detected a pattern in the resurrections. The next mound is going to be Sahloknir's, near Kynesgrove. If you are the one we've been waiting for, you'll be able to handle Sahloknir."

I looked at the map on the table and thought of all the miles I had been traveling lately. I resolved to buy a few horses when I had the money. "Kynesgrove is far from here. But afterwards you are going to answer every question I have," I told Delphine.

"Let's get going then," she said.

* * *

Packs bulging, the three of us set out that night and arrived at the road to Kynesgrove a little more than two weeks later. It was one of those hideous winter days where rain fell mixed with a stinging sleet. The mud sucked at our boots as we pressed forward. All conversation had died days ago after the first few hours of the persistent misery. We looked at the ground a few paces before our feet and trudged toward the welcome thought of the Kynesgrove's Inn.

We looked up at the sound of people yelling in the rain. A small group of people were running down the road toward us and Windhelm. Columns of smoke rose from the heights behind them.

"Stay away! The village is being attacked!" a woman cried. "A dragon!"

"Where?" Delphine demanded of the refugee.

The terrified woman pointed up the road, "It went to the burial mound above the town!"

"Come on!" Delphine shouted to Lydia and me.

Drawing our weapons, the three of us dropped low when we heard the flapping of wings. Creeping up the overgrown path behind the town, I saw him. It was the great black that had leveled Helgen. He was every bit as huge and dark as my nightmares painted him. He hovered above the mound, using his voice to blast away the earth.

The resurrection of Sahloknir began. The black dragon spoke words I could understand only remotely. Standing in the open, I saw the decay race back to the buried dragon's skeleton. They exchanged greetings and turned to me.

"You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah," the great black sneered. His voice came from all around me, not a yell from the hill above, but out of the air like a friend talking at arm's length.

The hovering beast turned again to the resurrected dragon on the surface. They exchanged final words whose meaning was quite clear. He flew off and Sahloknir attacked.

I dove and hugged the cold mud as Sahloknir's _Tu'um_ battered me with Unrelenting Force.

"_Wuld_!" I replied as soon as I could look up. Again the Shout felt like it was dragging me forward inches above the soggy earth. The Shout had landed me behind Sahloknir's right wing, next to his leg. I stood quickly and used the momentum to slash at the dragon's leg as Delphine's and Lydia's first arrows connected with him.

Sahloknir shifted and stood to launch himself upward. I was desperate when I grabbed onto his scales and pulled myself on his back as he left the ground behind us. I lurched into the numerous waist-high spines jutting from his back and held on for my life. He was livid at my effrontery and bucked harder than any bull. I clipped my saber to my belt and wormed my way toward his head. He turned and thrashed to throw the unwelcome rider tangled in his spikes.

Inevitably as bile I crept at last up to the back of his long throat. I lit Revenant again and lurched forward like a rock climber would for a distant handhold. I let Sahloknir's rearward leaning scales guide the tip of my blade to the vulnerable flesh at the base of his man-sized skull. His thrashing stopped as he felt the stinging heat of my saber touch his flesh. In reflex he bent his head down and away from the blade. His erratic flight became a smooth and steepening spiral as I struggled to move forward on his neck for the kill.

I do not know how high Sahloknir's flight took us, but I could not have been very high. I was about to drag myself along his slender neck another few inches when we crashed with a roar. I kept my hand on the hilt as inertia tore me off his neck and into the knee-deep mud. The scales I had been cutting under were ruined, the large patch on his neck was cracked and blistered.

The Other was livid at the lost opportunity for a kill. The Beast drove me back to my feet and over the nose of the stunned dragon lodged in the mud. I dropped down off his head and drove my blade into the damaged scales with a tremendous last stab.

Sahloknir bellowed in pain as he died, his essence merging with mine. The images came fast and furious: Two great longships sculled to the south, packed with men and women. Creatures with ice-white skin built cities. Nine servants in masks bowed, turned, and killed a man before me. The ground rushed up to meet me in the rain.

My vision cleared and I beheld sleet spattering off Sahloknir's bones. His final roar left my ears ringing loud.

"By Talos!" I saw Delphine's mouth say, "You are the Dragonborn!" I heard more clearly as the ringing in my ears faded.

"Why does everyone have such a hard-on for me being Dragonborn?" I demanded.

"A Dragonborn is the ultimate dragon-slayer. When you fight a Dragon, you absorb its soul."

"I saw the Whiterun Militia and others do just fine bringing down a dragon."

"Dragons are immortal. Its soul would have gone to the realms of Aetherius to recover and take form again. Only dragons or Dragonborn have the ability to prevent that from happening."

It was a grim relevation, but not one I was ready to ponder at the moment. "I've seen the black one before," I told Delphine.

"Really? Where?" She asked eagerly.

"It was the one that attacked Helgen."

"That makes sense if the Thalmor are behind their return," She said slowly, the wheels of thought beginning to turn behind her eyes.

"What makes you so sure the Thalmor are responsible?"

"The Empire had captured Ulfric. The war was basically over. Then the dragon shows up to allow him to escape and now the war's back on again. Who else but the Thalmor benefit from this?"

"So what's our next move?"

"We need to get a better handle on what the Thalmor are doing in Skyrim. That'll mean getting into their embassy... Meet me in Riverwood in a few weeks' time. I need to get in touch with a few old contacts."

"Make it a month; I have business to take care of myself."

* * *

**One thing to be said in Delphine's favor: Early in the game when my Dragonborn was having troubles, Delphine was willing to step in and shove a boot in his ass.**


	19. The Talk

**Wow! I can't believe that Book 1 is almost done. Not to worry, there's more to come. I'm having a great time doing this and have no intention to stop anytime soon. Keep sending those amazing reviews and destroy those 'follow' buttons!**

* * *

First among my errands was to climb up to High Hrothgar to meet again with the Greybeards and return the horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Arngeir was impressed in his reserved way.

"You have proven yourself to truly be the Dragonborn," he said to me while we walked to the center of the old citadel. A blizzard had stopped outdoor training for that night. "Now you are ready to face the unrestrained voice of the Greybeards." He turned to Lydia, "For your safety you should step outside, Housecarl Lydia. And cover your ears."

His voice brooked no argument. Whatever was coming, it was more dangerous than an early winter storm on a two-mile high mountain in the middle of the night.

She stepped outside and the four old men surrounded me. They spoke in the language of the dragons. Their unrestrained voices were like tides of water crashing against me in turns. Their speech was brief, but left me shaking on my hands and knees.

"What did you say?" I gasped.

"I forget, you are not a scholar of the dragon tongue," Arngeir said. "Those were the words our forbearers used to greet Tiber Septim on his first visit here, when he was still Talos of Atmora. In the tongue of mortals, this is a rough translation:

"_Long has the Stormcrown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you. In the name of Kyne. In the name of Shor. In the name of Atmora of old. You are Ysmir now, Dragon on the North. Harken to it_."

Destiny settled heavily on my shoulders for the rest of the return to Whiterun. I bade Lydia take a few days' rest for I had much do that I didn't want her dragged into.

* * *

It all had to do with the Companions. I met Aela in the main hall. She looked healthier, but just as tired as I remembered seeing her weeks ago. The Other felt to me like it was wagging its tail cautiously at a long-missing friend.

"I've been covering for you since you've been gone," she said. "Kodlak wants to speak with you." There was something off in her attitude and The Other latched onto it.

"What does he want? I asked. While I did not like that particular part of me, I had discovered The Other was seldom wrong.

"He didn't say. My advice: never lie to the Old Man, but don't tell him anything he doesn't need to know either."

"Thanks Aela and I'm glad to see you looking healthy again."

Her stiff posture relaxed, if only for a second. "Its been a hard time for me Ieago, but we have the Silver Hand by the throat now."

I stepped down to the under hall to meet our Harbinger. Kodlak Whitemane was in his usual chair in the office that made up half of his quarters. It was the first time I had been able to speak with the Old Man since becoming a werewolf. The Other picked up on the dual nature of Kodlak and advanced his head warily.

"Please, be seated," he ordered me. After I complied he continued, "So you and Aela have been busy lately," It was not a question. It felt like the Alpha wolf was advancing on a newcomer.

"Aela and I fight for the honor of the Companions," I said, perhaps too evasively. The Other was growling, trying to get out of a display of submission before the great Alpha.

The elderly man sneered over his long nose, "You needn't lie to me boy. I know exactly what the two of you have been up to. All this sneaking around behind the backs of your brothers is unseemly in a warrior of your caliber, Ieago. _And Aela should know better_. The two of you have taken far more lives than honor demands. Now I fear that the cycle of retribution will continue for some time."

I heard the experience and wisdom in Kodlak's voice and knew he was right. The Other rolled onto his back and the Alpha nipped at his neck.

Kodlak let the admonishment sink in before continuing. "Do you know how the Circle came to be werewolves?" he asked.

"Skjor said that the Beast-blood was a blessing from Hircine. Vilkas claims it was a curse."

Kodlak nodded, "As in all spiritual matters, the truth is actually somewhat of both. The Companions have existed for millennia. This question of lycanthropy has only troubled us for the last few hundred."

"So what is the truth then?"

"In exchange for services rendered, a well-meaning but short-sighted predecessor of mine agreed to accept the beast-blood from the witches of the Glenmoril Coven. The power to be gained from this pact seemed a good trade at the time."

"But are we not more powerful?" I asked.

"The witches were true to their word, but they kept the whole truth from us. We were made to believe that this would not be a permanent affliction. This disease, it has a price for the souls of most. You may already have started to feel it."

I nodded, "The fatigue, the urges..."

"Yes. Those are the symptoms. It's only going to get worse. Your desires will become even more base. You'll find yourself more prone to flight when standing your ground would serve others better. Eventually it can drain most people of all they could be, leaving you the tired rotting man you see before you. Ultimately, lycanthropy is how the Daedric Prince Hircine lays claim to the souls of mortals. When a lycan dies, it goes to the hunting grounds to be a servant of the Huntsman forever. For some this is a desirable fate. For myself however, I wish to reside in the halls of Sovngarde."

I could not begrudge the old man his choice of an afterlife. For my part, I wish to go to the Realms of Akatosh when I pass and I was less than pleased by the thought that Skjor and Aela had hid this detail of lycanthropy from me.

"What do you need me to do Harbinger?"

"In the mountains south of Falkreath, there is the cave of the Glenmoril Coven. Bring me their heads, the seat of their magic. My research suggests that is the key to ridding ourselves of the beast within us."

I stood, bowing to him again as I stepped upstairs. I passed by Aela as I made my way out the door. "He knows everything. He's known from the very beginning," I told her.

Aela gasped and followed me down the streets to the gate. Not until we were walking through the fields did I speak again. "Did you and Skjor plan on telling me anything important about being a werewolf?" I asked her.

"I see the Old Man poisoned you too," she said. "Why would anyone want to spend an eternity on your ass swilling mead when you could spend the afterlife in the hunt?"

I exploded, I was just that angry. "I'll have _neither_ afterlife if it is my choice, but it's NOT my choice because PEOPLE I TRUSTED hid the truth from me! _My_ _soul is not my own_ and I wasn't even aware I'd been cheated! Were you ever going to tell me Aela? Or were you and Skjor just going to wait until the Beast turned on me?"

Gods that woman was fast. I barely saw her inbound fist before it hit. I was just able to parry her follow-up. I finally locked her arm and used her sudden lack of balance to flip her over my hip. I squatted next to her prostrate form. "Kodlak wants his destiny back in his own hands Aela. Even if you love the beast within, do not begrudge he and I our own choices."

I walked on to the south. The tears were streaming from my eyes. The right one was beginning to swell shut in the middle of an expanding bruise. I never knew winning could make you feel so awful.


	20. Four Murders and a Funeral

**Unbelievable! I only have one more chapter to go before this story wraps up. Thanks again to you all for taking the time to read the chronicles of a scrawny, lightly armored, fourth wall smashing, red-headed dragonborn. Every review resulted in a careful rethink of the original manuscript I was posting from. Believe me, I took each one to heart and each made me evaluate what was important to the story. What you read here is so much better than what I thought was my final draft. And I learned ****_allot_****.**

**I learned that you want characters you can relate to and want to care about. I learned that most of you will forgive strange glowing weapons installed by random mods to the game; provided the character wielding them periodically does something cool (from the start I was concerned about Ieago's weapon). Last, I was relieved to learn that you are willing to forgive an author so vain as to project an idealized version of himself into a game and publish a lengthy narrative about it. So thank you once more. Posting this was a new experience for me and I had a blast doing it.**

* * *

In the fog-shrouded mountains south of Falkreath dwelt a coven of the Glenmoril Hagravens. Discovering the location of their filthy cave was a challenge of its own. The atmosphere at the Dead Man's Drink cooled the instant I asked for directions from the publican. None of the locals wanted anything to do with those witches or anyone seeking them out. I left in the late afternoon after a meal that the buxom waitress was barely willing to bring to me.

I wished Lydia was with me while I walked the quiet roads to the hagravens' nest. I had cooled off from our fight and the black eye had faded, but days later I was still angry with Aela. That she would hide the nature of our condition infuriated me to no end. The already fragile trust I tendered toward women in general and her specifically had shattered in the space of a five minute conversation with Kodlak. Yet Aela dominated my thoughts: The flash of green-gold in her eyes the night we first met. Her breathtaking beauty in the warm light of the under hall. The way my heart ached when I heard her cry over Skjor. If anyone could help me straighten out my feelings for Aela it would be Lydia.

I wondered if Lydia had someone special waiting for her to return from our adventures together. She had made our relationship clear from the start, I was not an option for her. I would be surprised if she was alone. I was sure an empowered and thoughtful creature as herself would have picked out a man every bit her equal. I felt even worse at the notion that I was the barrier between she and happiness.

I turned up the overgrown path to the south, up to the hill. My left hand felt its way to the diamond shape scored into my pauldron. Had I still been at home; had the Knights of the Nine still been whole; had all been right and just in the world; I wouldn't have been hunting witches in the woods of Skyrim. Aela and Skjor would still be together. Lydia would have a lover of her own, possibly a wealthy thane. I would have been taking my cares to Aeric and Jesten. They had been my closest friends since boyhood and my knight-brothers to the last breath. But all was not right. There I was in the vanilla-scented pines, about to enter the Glenmoril cave. Skjor and Aela were sundered. For all I knew my oldest friends lay in shallow graves or their skeletons bleached on crucifixes. Killed by the Thalmor like so many Cyrodiils. By the gods I felt alone.

The mountainside cave consisted of a large chamber with a few tunnels snaking out in odd directions from that central room. The cavern was deserted and pitch black, though the familiar smells of rotten meat and fresh guano assaulted my enhanced senses. The darkness lessened with a spell of night-vision. Lacking any other guidance, I picked the left most passage and followed it.

The tunnel ended a considerable distance later in a small dry room carpeted in feathers. On the balls of my feet, I toed noiselessly into the room and away from that single exit. A lone hagraven laired there. In the blue-black shades of my night vision she hunched over an alchemy lab, quietly grinding ingredients from a box set on the table next to her. I studied her bent profile. A beak-like nose and equally sharp chin projected from a curtain of greasy black hair. Feathers sprouted from her spindly arms, concentrated at her wrists and thinning toward her elbows. The cloak encasing her from looked to be made entirely of her discarded feathers. I moved to draw my saber when she spoke aloud.

"I know you're here Companion. I smell your air," she said, not looking up from her work. I moved around the wall slowly, wanting to get behind her. I decided against speaking to her.

"You stink of self-righteousness. Just like the rest of the Circle, _Dragonborn_," the use of my title was a shock, I stopped in place.

"Don't smell so surprised. Hircine has spoken to us about you. The ultimate hunter, what a fine trophy for his lodge."

I was moving again. Barely ten feet separated her from my unlit blade.

"I know why you're here. We all do. Yes, we lied to Harbinger Terrfyg, but he got the power he lusted for, just like the she-wolf did for you. Now your souls belong to Hircine."

My left hand shout out and hugged the nasty creature to the hilt of my saber. It lit the weapon and its blade shot through the creature's chest. Hints of smoke and burned hair joined the reek of the cave.

"I wouldn't tell Aela her soul is not hers," I whispered to the dying crone.

I discovered three more hagravens in the various chambers. Two died sleeping without ever knowing their peril. The last did not resist, even though her dying fire still had a few hot coals casting light. As far as I could tell she did not look angry or frightened, just resigned to her fate.

"Hircine's favor turns at last," She said to me. My blade hissed to life once more, the green blade's light illuminated her withered, naked form. "The prey animal becomes the predator again. Such is the final bargain of Hircine."

"The Companions are not animals," I answered.

She didn't flinch as I sank the hot blade down into her shoulder at the base of her neck, the blade burned down to her heart. I switched Revenant off as she fell into my waiting arm.

I dragged the bodies one by one to the landing outside the mouth of the cave. There I hacked the heads from the hag's bodies and walked off into the building rain.

I look the King Road home through Riverwood and was handed a note at the inn that I was to meet Delphine in Solitude.

There was a crowd standing on the steps of Jorrvaskr days later when I returned to Whiterun. Several of my shield-siblings were outside, standing over bodies I recognized as members of the Silver Hand. Aela was one of them.

"What happened?" I asked her. The fight had been all of a few minutes ago. The blood on her daggers was still wet. I found the blades easier to look at than make eye contact with her.

"The Silver Hand had the audacity to attack us here. A few of us were hurt, but the cowards were driven off."

Fearing disaster, I ran up the steps and burst into the hall. Kodlak lay prostrate on the floor, lifeless. Vilkas and Njada knelt at his side. Vilkas stood up at the sound of me dropping the heads on the floor and bull-rushed me back on the wall. His forearm lodged under my chin and kept pushing forward.

"Where were you?" he demanded.

"I was doing Kodlak's bidding," I choked out, grasping at his powerful arm. The excuse rang hollow in the silent hall and we all felt it: Kodlak was dead and my blade might have made the difference.

"It had better have been fucking important, because it means you weren't around to defend him!"

"Did we lose anyone else Vilkas?"

He backed off, letting me sag onto the wall and suck air in.

"No. Just a few injuries, nothing serious. The Silver Hand took the shards of Wuuthrad as they ran."

"Vilkas, we need to end this war."

"We need to end the war _you _and Aela started. She told me where they're hiding. Let's go."

The days spent riding to the Silver Hand's safe house were silent and tense. Vilkas said nothing to me. He didn't waste so much as a single word of blame one me. He didn't have to. I felt his anger at me all the same. His anger at me for leaving Aela alone while I adventured for months. His anger at me for feeding Aela's rage and chasing vendetta behind the Circle's back. His fury that I had disappeared again, only to return when the man he loved as a father was dead. By the time we arrived at Driftshade Refuge, he was ready to explode.

Vilkas blasted into Driftshade Refuge like a peal of thunder. The sight of him in the wolf armor forged by Eorlund as he maneuvered his claymore though the fight was astonishing. His Battle Cry was a roar that drove the Silver Hand before him in supernatural terror. I can only dream that my own appearance in battle was as worthy of praise. We fought beyond ourselves, sword, spell, and saber hacking and whirling through our enemies.

The last living lieutenant of the werewolf hunters met us near the fragments of Wuuthrad. Vilkas charged him and I came around on to the side. In hind sight, I think the only help Vilkas needed from me was to hold his cloak. The Skyforged claymore in Vilkas' hands slammed into the silvered blade hard enough to shake the room. Every stroke of Vilkas' sword landed the same way, overwhelming our enemy. The leader fell to one knee. My saber had found its way past his greaves, leaving his leg burned and bleeding. Vilkas slammed the pommel cap of his sword down on the man's forehead. The lieutenant fell back unconscious, but Vilkas wasn't done. He hacked at the prostrate body over and over again, tearing through armor and sending up spatters of gore.

"Vilkas," I said to get his attention, but he just kept going, beginning to cry in his rage.

"VIL-KAS!" I shouted. I was using the Voice of the Emperor. A gift to my race that allows us all an imposing flash of dignity that can check even the most furious of people as effectively as the Nordic Battle Cry might drive an enemy away.

He stopped his butchery at last, looking at me stupidly with a blood-freckled face.

"He's dead Vilkas. Take his head and let's go home."

At last, covered in blood, we emerged from the old sanctuary. The Silver Hand's last safe house was shattered. Their last leader's head was on Vilaks' sword. The fragments of Ysgramor's axe were on my back.

We returned in time for the beginning of Kodlak's funeral. The Harbinger had been laid in state on a briar built upon the Skyforge. All of the Companions had shown up. Behind them, most of the dignitaries from Dragonsreach had come to pay their respects. Even the Gray-Manes and the Battle-Borns had set aside their feud to say good bye to the great man that we of the Circle simply thought of with affection as "the Old Man."

"Who will start?" Eorlund asked.

"I'll do it," Aela said, stepping toward the briar. "Before the ancient flame:"

"We grieve," the crowd intoned.

"At his loss," Vilkas said.

"We weep."

"For the fallen," Farkas said.

"We shout."

"And for ourselves," I said.

"We take our leave."

With the end of the prayer, Aela set a torch to the pyre. "Kodlak Whitemane is gone," She said. "Let the members of Circle adjourn to the Underforge to grieve our last together."

The four of us stood together to say farewell to our guests and then our shield-siblings. Before I could turn for the stairs behind the rest of the Circle, Eorlund stopped me.

"I'm glad you were able to retrieve the fragments of Wuuthrad," he said. "But for me to reassemble it, I need a final piece that Kodlak kept with his journal. I don't think it would be right if I were to dig about in his things. He had a high regard for you though. I think it would be more fitting."

I nodded my agreement and went into the Old Man's bedroom. I soon found his journal and the fragment. A cursory read of the last few pages outlined his plan to rid himself of lycanthropy.

After giving the piece to Eorlund, I stepped down to the Underforge. There I caught the middle of an argument.

"The Old Man had one wish before he died. And he didn't get it. It's as simple as that," Vilkas was saying to Aela.

"Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas," she replied.

"That's fine for you. But he wanted to be clean. He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde. But all that was taken from him."

"And you avenged him."

"Kodlak did not care for vengeance," Farkas answered.

Aela looked down for a moment, "You're right. It's what he wanted. But it's too late for him now."

"Perhaps not," I said, taking a place at the cistern in the middle of the cave. "According to Kodlak's research, I think we can still free him from Hircine. We need to get to the tomb of Ysgramor."

Vilkas growled his frustration, "But we need Wuuthrad to enter that tomb and the axe has been shattered for thousands of years."

"Wuuthrad was a tool like any other," a new voice said from the entrance to the Underforge. We turned to see Eorlund brandishing the largest axe I had ever seen, "And like all tools it can be repaired."

The four of us looked on this piece of history with reverence. My awe ended when I was asked to carry the oversized killing tool.

Eorlund turned to me, "By your efforts Wuuthrad was reassembled. You should have the honor of returning it to Ysgramor."

I accepted the fantastically heavy weapon, "For Kodlak!" He shouted at us.

We looked to Aela with expectation. She drew one of her daggers, a wicked 20-inch short blade. "For Kodlak!" she shouted.

"For Kodlak!" The rest of us cried in reply as we ran for the door.

The four of us ran to the stables, the night still young. "Catch up Lydia!" I shouted as we passed Breezehome. We had far to go and none were willing to slow their pace until we had gone many miles.


	21. One Last Battle

**One thing I neglected the past few chapters: Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

**I have a question before I push the next chapter below: I introduced Ieago's weapon of choice to no comment and no drop in readership. In fact, the only major drop in visitors comes between the first and second chapters. Only in the last few weeks have I received any negative response stemming from it's inclusion. So I have to ask, what was I doing right for the last two-thirds of the story that changed? I suppose that I could move my work to the crossover section, but I prefer the larger volume of traffic in its current section. Something to think about. I am eager to hear from you all and thanks as always for reading.**

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The Tomb of Ysgramor, Harbinger of Us All, rests in the extreme north of Skyrim beyond even Winterhold. Tradition holds that this is the first place that Ysgramor touched in Skyrim upon his return after the Night of Tears. The world must have changed since then, for now a landing would be nearly impossible. The tomb is entered at the base of a steep and tall promontory that extends out from the rest of the coast. The bay formed around it is choked with icebergs. No large ship of men could land here now. An occasional pile of wood on the distant ice marked where people had tried. Even if you could get a barge in, where would you send your army? Where there was not a high ragged stone cliff, there as a high ragged ice cliff. The five of us; the Circle, Lydia, and I had diverted many miles to the west to find safe routes down though the glaciers.

In the antechamber of the tomb was a statue of our first Harbinger. Ysgramor looked stern and powerful as he stood guard over the graves of himself and his first Companions.

"You should be careful when you enter. This place is perilous," Vilkas said.

"You're not coming with us?" I asked. I felt let down to lose his company.

"Kodlak's words on revenge were right, Ieago. All I could think of as we cleared out Driftshade was my own rage and grief. It weighs too heavily on my heart still."

"I'm sorry to lose you Vilkas. What makes this place perilous?"

"This is the resting place of Ysgramor's original companions. They were his generals in life and guard his resting place now. Only the worthy are permitted to see the crypt of the Harbinger of Us All."

"So how do we get in?" Farkas asked.

"Return Wuuthrad to Ysgramor."

I placed the colossal axe in the statue's hands. A hidden door opened behind it and blades drawn, we rushed in. The first assault went well, though the ghosts of the ancient Companions put up a stiff resistance, particularly in the large rooms where they could use arrows. Lydia used her armor and shield to help Aela stand off with her own bow, itself of ancient Nord make. I used my warding spell to help Farkas close to melee. The end of this first battle brought us to a door blocked by webbing.

"I can't go on," Farkas said as I used the Healing Hands spell on he and Lydia. I looked with concern over his wounds, none seemed too troubling.

"What's wrong Farkas?" Aela asked.

"The creepie-crawlies. Ever since Ieago and I ran into them in Dustman's Cairn, I haven't been able to handle them."

"Go find Vilkas then," I said. "I'll give Ysgramor your regards."

Frostbite spiders are frightening to behold and a challenge for any single hunter, but between my blade and spells, Aela's unerring accuracy with a bow, and Lydia's talent for keeping a shield or armor between her and the next blow, even the big old female in the largest room was not a challenge.

The three of us entered the chamber of Ysgramor's tomb at last.

Next to a fire in the middle of the room, we beheld a ghostly figure. He was warming his hands over the blaze. Coming closer, I knew the shade to be Kodlak Whitemane.

"So you made it," he said turning to address the three of us. "We have been warming ourselves by the Flame of the Harbinger, hiding from Hircine."

Aela was as confused as the rest of us alive in that room. "But we only see you Kodlak," she said. "What others?"

"This room is crowded with the ghosts of the Harbingers. You only see me Aela, because I am the only one your heart knows as Harbinger. I bet old Vignar could see half a dozen of my predecessors."

Kodlak turned back to me, "Do you have them? The witches' heads?"

I nodded.

"Good. Throw one into the fire. That should draw out the beast within me so we might kill it."

I did as instructed and a colossal wolf tore its way out of Kodlak's form. Like a man suddenly cast out of his home, the wolf-spirit turned and lunged at Kodlak's shade.

"_Fus ro dah_!" I roared. The Shout blasted the spirit away from the Old Man, bouncing him off the steps leading to Ysgramor's barred coffin. Aela, Lydia, and I rushed the creature before it could stand again. My boot was on its skull as Aela delivered the killing blow. Kodlak was free to rest in peace.

"Thank you my son," he said, addressing me when the dust settled. "This was only able to free myself, but perhaps from Sovngarde I can lead the rescue of the Harbingers. _The harrowing of the Hunting Grounds_," He chuckled, "It would make quite the tale. For now I take my leave. I hand the Companions over to you. For too long we have languished without a leader. Lead them to the honor and glory we knew of old, Harbinger."

"Farewell Old Man," I said to his fading form.

Aela approached me, "Did I hear right? Did Kodlak call you Harbinger?"

"He did," I replied. I strode over to the flames and took out a second head from my pack. "And this is my first deed as Harbinger."

After watching Kodlak I should have been more ready for the pain of exorcism, but perhaps nothing could prepare me for this agony. That other presence within me was furious, wordlessly raging as it was drawn from his den. He resisted, dragging his metaphysical claws on my soul. My body burned and ached like I had been ill and vomiting for a day instead of fighting. I screamed in torment, as loud as I had when I accepted Aela's blood so many weeks ago. My bestial nature, now a thing to be seen and fought, turned to try and rejoin me.

Whatever their opinions on my condition, Lydia and Aela were faithful to the last. Arrows darted into the wolf's shoulders as Aela angled for a heart shot. Lydia kept her shield high before the six-foot wolf spirit, all that stood between the animal and my crumpled form. It was all I could do to get onto my hands and knees. The fibers of my body burned like they had been struck by lightning. No effort of will could overcome the pain and allow me to fight for myself. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I have a dragon's soul. Or perhaps it was that Kodlak had better control of his inner beast, but mine was twice as big as Kodlak's and proportionately more dangerous.

When the tomb was silent again, I felt Aela's rage, which was still more dangerous.

"You just couldn't handle it could you? The power and the glory I gave you! Skjor was wrong about you. Coward," she spat her favorite insult. Gods she was angry, but so was I.

"Lydia, go on ahead, you don't deserve to witness this." She hesitated, looking fearfully between Aela, still strong and ready for violence; and me, still crawling on the floor, barely able to raise my head and speak. "Don't worry. Aela and I have some things to say to each other, nothing more."

I waited for my housecarl to be well away before standing slowly and turning on Aela, "What glory Aela?" I demanded, "I haven't slept a whole night since I took the Blood FOUR MONTHS AGO! The glory of feeling tired all the time? Or how about the 'glory' of having strangers tell you that you smell like a wet dog every time it rains? As for the power, I can't deny the power. But it asks too much of me Aela! The rage it brings, the urges. I almost raped Lydia!"

The silence hung for a minute before I went on, "I'm going to Solitude. I need to step away from this for a while."

With that I turned and followed Lydia out of the tomb. Vilkas, Farkas, and Lydia were shocked to see the fury on my face. Without a word I waved for Lydia to follow and we left the Circle.

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**As I post this 700 visitors have viewed ****_I, Companion _****more than 3000 times. I am ****_thrilled _****by the response to my first published story. Thank you for all the favorites, the follows, and ****_especially_**** the reviews of ****MANATEE****, ****Chippermovie****, ****SwordsmanofS****, and ****DarkquillMaster**** for making this a better and better story! The character of Ieago, his deeds, and the relationships he is forging with the world around him are so much more complete and sophisticated because of your time and consideration.**


	22. Teaser

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

**Read on for a snippet from Ieago's adventures in the forthcoming ****_I,_****_Dragonborn_****!**

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"_Yol toor_!" I forced the last of the air from my lungs to bellow flame. The brass-colored metal of the double doors fused together under the double assault of flames from within and without. Rings of brown and green edged out from the center of the white-hot blast as the heat changed the metal.

Quiet noise filled the room in the wake of the noise of the retreat. The Falmer could still be heard croaking and howling through the metal door and the impotent roars of the dragon. The taste and smell of smoke lingered in my ash-dry mouth. I turned to check on my friends.

"You broke your fancy saber," Aela pointed.

"My voice is busted too," I rasped out. Speaking would be done in a whisper for the next several days.

I began to cast Healing Hands on Aela and Lydia as I began to feel the sting of my own injuries.


End file.
